


The Labyrinth

by Twisted_Barbie



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-19 21:13:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5981155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Barbie/pseuds/Twisted_Barbie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hobbit/The Labyrinth splice AU</p><p>The tale of the Dwarven King was widely known in the Shire and had been passed down from generation to generation. Once it began as a tale of adventure but time had distorted the story and it became little more than a scare tactic to make naughty hobbit children go to sleep.</p><p>Until one dark stormy night a hobbit speaks the words that must not be spoken and learns that not all tales are made of fantasy. </p><p>Edited 14th February 2017</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Labyrinth

**Author's Note:**

> I had every intention of writing a new Valentine’s Day story however I couldn’t find the time while writing my Walking Dead story. I always promised to edit this story to make Thorin’s plotline more coherent, so here is the edited version for those that have read it before and enjoy to those that are new :)

“...and he lived happily ever after to the end of his days.” Bilbo Baggins spoke softly and closed the leather bound book. He cast his eyes to the single bed and audibly sighed as he found the big blue eyes of his cousin and current charge staring at him wide awake.

“Another,” Frodo chirped merrily and pointed to a shelf overfilled with books. Bilbo set the book down on top of the one he had read previously and pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off the approaching headache threatening to overwhelm him. 

“Two is quite enough for one night, aren’t you tired?” 

“No!” Frodo snapped petulantly and crossed his arms in defiance with his lower lip protruding to convey his discontent. 

“The day is done, my lad, now early to bed early to rise and if this confounded rain relents I may take you to see Samwise but you must sleep.” Bilbo coaxed with his best winning smile. 

Frodo was quiet for a time, quite clearly mulling over the offer as Bilbo listened to the patter of rain against the window and watched the occasional flash of lightening and hear the deep rumbling of thunder that would follow. It had been quite humid in the Shire as of late and though his garden could use the water too much might ruin his splendid brightly coloured flowers that were the talk of Hobbiton. 

“Can’t sleep, story.” Bilbo sighed once more, disappointed that his bribe had not worked and he would have to sink to threats as his mother once did to him. 

“Okay,” he agreed standing up and straightening his red waistcoat. “I ought to tell you the story all naughty hobbit children know, the tale of the Dwarven King.” Frodo sat up on the bed smiling widely aware of the tale but eager to hear it once more. “It started in a hole in the ground, not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell. Nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort. However on this particular night, a night very much like this one with the sky crying tears of anger and the wind howling in fury, a young hobbit child sat up awake in bed refusing to sleep though it was very late. The child’s carer was beside himself having already read two stories and then he remembered the story about the Dwarven King. Though what many did not know was that the Dwarven King was intrigued by the race of hobbits as it was foretold that one such creature would steal his heart. The news enraged him for theft of any kind was punishable by death and so without their knowledge he granted hobbits certain powers so that the prophesy may never be fulfilled. So, this night when the child was being a terror he called upon the dwarves for help and they answered. ‘Say the right words,’ the dwarves said ‘and we’ll take the child to Erebor and you will be free.’ But the hobbit knew the Dwarven King would take the child to Erebor. Where he would mine pretty jewels from the rock forever and ever until he would become a dwarf himself. So he continued to suffer in silence until he could no longer stand it.” Choosing that moment to lift the child, Bilbo raised the three-year-old up towards the ceiling holding him beneath his chubby arms.

“’I can take it no longer! Dwarven King, Dwarven King wherever you may be take this child of mine far away from me!’” His words were followed by a crack of thunder and a flash of lightening and Frodo squealed happily in his arms and he laughed and set the child on the bed. “Of course they were not the correct words and I shall not repeat them for fear that the mighty dwarf lord hides in the shadows waiting to be called upon.” The threat of the Dwarven King had always put him to sleep so Bilbo quietly rejoices as Frodo lies down and he pulls the quilt over him. As he turns to leave the room Frodo whispers to him and he stops to hear him. 

“Say the words,” Frodo says again unnerved but defiant.

“You wish for me to summon the dwarves of Erebor?” He asks impressed by Frodo’s bravery, the thought of the dwarves taking him away had him quaking beneath his sheet in fear as a child. 

“Yes,” Frodo replies confidently but his small hands tightly grip the quilt. Bilbo walks over to the door blowing out candles as he goes and stands on the threshold looking at the small head poking out of the thick blankets. Frodo was a ringer for his mother, his first cousin Primula Brandybuck with his dark curls and alabaster skin and like Primula; he could not refuse the child. 

“Very well,” he agrees and Frodo giggles in nervous excitement. “I wish the dwarves would come and take you away right now.” He blows out the candle as another flash of lightening lights up the room and as the thunder rumbles seconds behind it he realises all is quiet. “Frodo?” He calls out though it is too dark to see and he has to return to the hall and collect a candle. “Frodo, enough games now, there’s a good lad.” He walks over to the bed and finds the covers pulled up and he laughs to himself and pulls the covers down but his laugh dies in his throat as the bed is empty. “Frodo?” He questions, panicked and drops to his knees looking beneath the bed to no avail. “You’ve got me, well played now get to bed,” he calls with a tremor in his voice as he searches the room in the weak glow of the candlelight. 

He turns his attention towards the closet quite certain Frodo was in the room. As he approaches his senses are on overload straining to hear the sounds of a naughty hobbit child and he jumps startled as something heavy collides with the window. He turns quickly, startled to find a raven flying against the glass clearly trying to escape nature’s fury. “Frodo please,” he calls walking backwards continuing his trek towards the closet whilst keeping his eyes on the deranged raven. When the closet is against his back he reaches for the handle and turns quickly, pulling it open. “Aha!” He calls victoriously though it was in vain as he searches the closet top to bottom with no luck. 

Behind him the raging winds force the window open and a cold gust extinguishes his candle and he drops to the floor as he hears the flapping of wings and the crowing of a bragging raven. He crawls towards the bedroom door to close it as he wants to contain the bird but the wind forces the door shut with a terrible bang that he is sure it must startle the neighbours. 

“Frodo?” He calls quietly but insistently and receives no reply and instead hears a light thud. Pressing his hands against the door he gets onto his feet once more and turns to close the window when he is startled by a tall broad figure stood before him. A flash of lightening reveals long raven hair but too soon he is engulfed in darkness with a stranger. “Frodo?” He calls convinced the scared timid voice he hears was not his own. A dark chuckle that rumbled like thunder had him backing away from the silhouette of the stranger and he pulled at the closed door uselessly as it refused to open. 

His palms were sweaty as he tried the door handle once more and when the next crack of thunder struck all the candles within the room were suddenly lit and he could see once more. Gathering his courage for Frodo’s sake rather than his own, Bilbo turned away from the door and eyed the figure stood beneath the hanging candelabra. 

“You’re him, aren’t you?” He questions eyeing the dwarf stood before him. At five foot three he was tall for a dwarf with jet black hair combed backwards and interspersed with silver strands. His black beard was odd, short- no longer than an inch and kept neat around his mouth and chops. Pale blue eyes regarded him from beneath thick eyebrows and Bilbo swallowed nervously as the intruder smirked at him and looked down his regal nose. “You’re the Dwarven King.” It’s madness to say such things as the tale was naught but a fairytale to terrify the fauntlings but there is no denying the dwarf stood in front of him in a light brown fur surcoat and chainmail. “I want Frodo back, please, if it’s all the same.” 

The Dwarven King crosses his arms over his broad chest and his vambraces clink as they touch. “What’s said is said,” his voice is deep, familiar and alluring and Bilbo would argue hypnotic as he found himself swayed from his thoughts and unsure of himself. 

“But I didn’t mean it,” he argues, remembering his plight and knowing not to look the king in the eye or he would surely lose his argument and Frodo as well. 

“Oh, you didn’t?” The king teases with a tilt of his head clearly mocking him and enjoying every second of it. 

“Please, where is he?” He implores and the king heaves a sigh of annoyance.

“You know very well where he is.”

“Please bring him back, please.”

“Bilbo, go back to your armchair and read your books and forget about Frodo.”

“I can’t.” 

“I’ve brought you a gift,” the king announces holding up his right hand where a beautiful stone materialises shining like a beacon of light.

“What is it?” Bilbo asks, mesmerised by the hypnotic swirling colours. 

“The Arkenstone, the Heart of the Mountain.” The Dwarven King sounds far away as he feels himself drift, lost in the magnificence of the stone held before him. “But this is not a gift for an ordinary hobbit, do you want it?” Bilbo feels himself nod and the king smiles appeased. “Then forget about the child.” 

There is a story about the Arkenstone, in a version of the Dwarven King’s tale as he remembers his mother used to mention it but each re-telling suited the child hearing the story and what was once said he can no longer recall. “I can’t,” he admits ashamedly and squeezes his eyes shut so he is no longer tempted by the pretty jewel. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate what you’ve done but I want Frodo back. He must be so scared...”

“Bilbo!” The Dwarven King interrupts furiously and the stone vanishes from whence it came. Still sore over his refusal the king grasps him and lifts him and shakes him for good measure. “Don’t defy me,” he warns and drops him leaving him gasping on the floor. “You’re no match for me, Bilbo.”

Bilbo stands on shaking legs and straightens his waistcoat. “But I have to have Frodo back,” he moans pitifully and the king narrows his eyes and points towards the open window.

“He’s there in my palace.” Bilbo steps forward startled by the change of scenery as gone were the rolling hills of the Shire and instead he could see a dense forest and a city beyond that and in the distance he could see the Lonely Mountain, Erebor. “Do you still want to look for him?” 

Bilbo turns from the window resolute and finds himself before the entrance of the creepy woods. The forest seemed sick as if a disease lied upon it and he steps forward hesitantly with a tsk from the king. “Turn back, Bilbo, turn back before it is too late.”

“I can’t, don’t you understand that I can’t?” 

“What a pity,” the king mumbles stepping away from him.

“It doesn’t look that far,” he says with false bravado knowing instinctively he could not appear lesser in the Dwarven King’s eyes. 

“It’s further than you think and time is short.” A clock boasting thirteen hours instead of twelve materialises on one of the dead trees before him. “You have thirteen hours to solve the labyrinth before Frodo becomes one of us forever.” The king informs him and then disappears. “Such a pity,” the king’s disembodied voice calls out and Bilbo shrugs off the king’s disdain and walks confidently towards the woods. 

The darkness of the forest is foreboding but he had made his bed so now he must lie in it. He enters cautiously casting his eyes to the moss covered statues defaced with poorly drawn eyes upon the face and breast. He knows that it is a warning though he wonders by whose hand as he walks into the forest wondering when the labyrinth would begin. 

A jaunty hum captures his attention and he turns to see the back of a dwarf stood before a creek. “Excuse me?” Bilbo calls politely and makes his way over to the dwarf in a hat. As he approaches he realises his mistake as he catches the dwarf relieving himself and he turns away quickly, red in the face. “Terribly sorry, I did not know...I did not see...” he waves his hand as words fail him and hears the sound of a zip and an amused chuckle. 

“Didn’t mean ta give ye an eye-full.” The dwarf laughs and turns around regarding Bilbo with amused brown eyes. “By my beard, it’s you!” He announces suddenly. 

“Sorry, do I know you?” Bilbo asked while nervously tugging on his red waistcoat. The dwarf before him was taller than he but no more than three inches, far shorter than the Dwarven King and his presence was far less intimidating. 

“I doubt that, name’s Bofur.” He introduces himself with a quirky bow and Bilbo thinks the dwarf himself is quirky from his grey woollen hat with ear flaps that turned upwards to his black handlebar moustache that reached past his jaw and also curves upwards. Two black thick messy braids poke out from beneath the hat and drop down to his shoulders also curving upwards at the ends and then he notices the dwarf watching his appraisal with an enigmatic grin. 

“I’m Bilb...”

“Bilbo Baggins, aye, I know who you are.”

“Oh,” Bilbo stated, dumbfounded. “Well then could you help me? I’m looking for the labyrinth.”

“Well look no further, you’re in it.”

“Really?” Bilbo asked looking around expecting to see a maze rather than endless dead trees. 

“Aye, d’ya need me to show you the way out?” Bofur asked earnestly and Bilbo laughed nervously in reply. 

“Could you show me the way to Erebor?” 

“Erebor!” Bofur announced in surprise. “Now why would a nice lad like yourself want to go there for?” 

“The Dwarven King has my cousin and I must get him back.” Bilbo watched as Bofur’s quirky grin gave way to a frown. 

“Turn back, Bilbo, you don’t want to cross Thorin, he’s a pain in the arse at the best of times.”

“You’ll not help me then?” Bilbo asked, saddened and knew the answer before one was given. “I have to get Frodo back, you don’t understand, neither of you do but it is what I must do.” 

Bofur approached and rested a dirty hand on his shoulder. “Then I wish you all the luck in the world, I really do.” With a forced smile Bofur took his leave and then paused and eyed him and opened his mouth but the words died on his tongue. He gaped like a fish momentarily and after a brief internal struggle, he tried once more. “Stay on the path, if you lose it you’ll not find it again.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo replied to Bofur’s back as the kind dwarf scurried off. 

Taking the hard-won advice Bilbo followed the footpath and tried to recall the tale his mother used to tell him. Before the Dwarven King became a threatening story to encourage children to sleep it was a tale of romance and adventure and an old one at that as even his mother was told the story as a child. The abduction of a child was a part of the original telling and it was why the story became so distorted overtime. The guardian of the child had to best the labyrinth through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered and fight their way to Erebor. Only one true of heart and worthy could master the labyrinth and once done, a choice is to be made and precise words must be spoken to break the spell. 

It was troublesome knowing only half of the words but he could not deny the twinge of excitement he felt with the opportunity for an adventure. He was a hobbit, he could not deny and a Baggins to boot, thoroughly respectable if somewhat of an outlandish storyteller. However he was a Took as well, with a sense of adventure that rivalled his mother’s. True, adventures made you late for tea and a hobbit was a creature of comfort and woefully predictable but even though he was not dressed for such an outing he was thrust into this adventure without so much as a by your leave and he was somewhat grateful for the break of the monotony of his life. 

He continued to follow the footpath disliking the forest more with every step further but the woods were designed to weaken his resolve and test the strength of his will. He refused to let the oppressive forest get the best of him so instead he chose to sing to keep his spirits up. 

_“Farewell we call to hearth and hall!_  
Though wind may blow and rain may fall,  
We must away ere break of day  
Far over wood and mountain tall. 

_To Rivendell, where Elves yet dwell_  
In glades beneath the misty fell.  
Through moor and waste we ride in haste,  
And whither then we cannot tell. 

_With foes ahead, behind us dread,_  
Beneath the sky shall be our bed,  
Until at last our toil be passed,  
Our journey done, our errand sped. 

_We must away! We must away!  
We ride before the break of day!” _

There was no sound in the forest and though his singing voice disturbed the quiet moments ago the eerie hush resumed. He had thought he might hear the song of birds or the rustling of dead leaves from the passing breeze but all was still like the quiet that fell over a graveyard. So it came as a welcomed surprise when he finally heard a running stream in the distance and his large, bare hobbit feet hurried along the winding path towards a bridge. 

His heart plummeted down to his hairy toes when he found the bridge had collapsed and he could not make it to the other side. He paused, remembering Bofur’s words and knew the collapsed bridge was a trick by the Dwarven King to dash his hopes and make him turn back. Affronted by the king’s underhanded tactics, Bilbo looked towards the hanging vines and began to climb. In his youth he regularly played in the woods bordering the Shire and he would consider himself quite a good climber but like all hobbits he was an abysmal swimmer. Again the Dwarven King would know that, if the story was true and so the stream itself was a deterrent to make him turn away. 

“I’ll show you,” Bilbo huffed indignantly and made his way along the vines without a problem and resumed his trek along the path before a riled raven squawked at him from a branch not far ahead. Stooping low, Bilbo picked up a pebble and threw it at the bird, striking its left wing causing the bird to fly away. 

Dread settled in his stomach as he knew he should not have done that but old habits die hard. He was a terror in his youth, throwing stones at the crows that a bird had not flown near him since. Regardless of past transgressions as a child something told him that that bird had been different and he knew he was right to be concerned as the footpath vanished before his eyes. 

“No no no! This isn’t fair!” He yelled towards the canopy of leaves above his head that blocked out the sky. He had to take a moment to recover from his outburst and consider his options, Bofur’s warning meant very little now that the path was gone and the maze truly began. The majority of the stories he had heard about mazes always spoke of a trail of breadcrumbs so the participant could always find their way out. He had no bread but instead pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tore a strip from it. He intended to best the labyrinth not leave it however he would leave markers for himself should he take the wrong turn so he would know where he had been. 

Remembering the path turned right before disappearing, Bilbo ties the first piece of cloth to a branch and covers as much ground as he can remember before it was so cruelly taken away. For how long he walks thereafter he cannot be sure as the air is heavy with illusion and his heart slows as his breathing becomes shallow as he drifts on the plain between wakefulness and sleep. His eyes feel heavy and he drops his head forward staring at the absent path and groans annoyed as his feet appear to be going backwards when he was sure he was going forward. 

Another fork in the road and another torn ribbon from his handkerchief and he ventured left but he did not get far at all as he found the trees were too close together essentially forming a dead-end. He turned back and returned to the fork in the road and as he stepped forward to turn right he cast one last look over his shoulder and realised his marker had gone. 

“Curse you!” He yelled to the obscured heavens. “Is there no end to this accursed forest?” He sat down heavily upon a fallen tree and dropped his head in his hands.

“Don’t suppose he was talking to us?” He heard a voice enquire in the distance. 

“No Fili, I think Mister Boggins was talking to himself.”

“Strange creature.”

“Strange indeed.”

“I can hear you, you know!” Bilbo called out to the voices that came from the path he had previously taken. Getting up off the tree, Bilbo walked up the left path again and saw a huge boulder that had two doors that was not there before. In front of the doors stood two dwarves of similar height, one blond and the other brunet dressed impressively in silk and fur and both smiled winningly at his approach. “Who are you?”

“Fili,” the blond with a braided moustache answered.

“And Kili,” the brunet with a horrible resemblance to the Dwarven King said next. “At your service,” they spoke as one with an elaborate bow and a sweep of their blue cloaks.

“And I at yours,” Bilbo replied unsure if his words were correct. “Could you show me the way out of the forest?”

“Only way out of here is through these two doors. One leads to the centre of the labyrinth and the other to certain death ooooh,” Kili informed him quite merrily, reveling in his unease as the Dwarven King had. 

“Which one is which?”

“You can’t ask us,” Fili replied. “You can only ask one of us.”

“It is in the rules and I must warn you one of us always tells the truth and one of us always lies, that’s a rule too. He always lies.” Kili informs him and points at his companion accusingly.

“I do not, I tell the truth!”

“Oh what a lie.”

“He’s the liar,” Fili says heatedly.

“Alright,” Bilbo tries to calm the situation and approaches Fili who is glaring at the other dwarf. “Answer yes or no, would he tell me that this door leads to Erebor?”

“Err,” Fili paused, and the dwarves shared looks of uncertainty. “Yes.”

“Then the other door leads to Erebor and this door leads to certain death.”

“How do you know? Kili could be telling the truth.”

“But then you wouldn’t be, so if you told me that he said yes I know the answer is no.”

“But I could be telling the truth.”

“But then he would be lying so if you told me that he said yes then I know the answer would still be no.”

“Wait a minute,” Fili called and turned to Kili. “Is that right?”

“I don’t know,” Kili responded with a shrug. “I’ve never understood it.”

“No it’s right,” Bilbo answers confidently. “I figured it out; I might still make it out of this maze yet.” Turning from Fili, Bilbo steps towards the other door as Kili moves aside for him and he opens it seeing more trees and thinks nothing of it and steps forward. 

The ground gives way immediately once he crosses the threshold and he falls into the consuming darkness of a cavern and watches as what little light remains is swallowed by the devouring shadows. The drop is long and not without injury as his arms and legs are scratched as he knocks against the jutting rocks and hears his cry of pain echo to announce his arrival for whatever awaited him below. 

His landing is cushioned by some form of plant though he cannot see what. He blinks repeatedly unsure when his eyes were open and closed as the results were the same. Feeling entirely miserable and somewhat sore that the Dwarven King had bested him, Bilbo lay on the plant and willed his tears away. 

He hadn’t meant to summon the Dwarven King and wish his cousin away! The whole situation was unfair and the king was entirely unreasonable. For the first time since the whole miserable saga began Bilbo considered turning around and going back home. He was a soft creature not meant for the wild and he was lost and out of his depth. The king was far too savvy for him and his willingness to bend the rules to suit his own agenda proved that he was a foe he could not match. He’d wager he had only gotten this far because the king was humouring him and would be reveling in his sorry state right now. 

Sighing deeply, Bilbo summoned the courage to call for the gloating king and tugged on his tragically torn waistcoat. As it was pitch black his hand brushed against the pocket and he felt something inside and remembered the daisy chain Frodo had made for him that day and he sat up abruptly and abandoned all thoughts of retreat. 

Bilbo considered standing but as it was so dark he could not see in front of him never mind above him and he had no desire to dash his head on a rock and sleep away the remaining hours. Instead he got onto all fours and groped around feeling for the wall and hoping against hope that the king wasn’t so awful as to leave him in a hole until the time expired. That would be cheating and he most certainly would not stand for it.

Wherever he had landed was spacious and before his reaching hands touched the cavern wall he instead felt metal. He patted along the object trying to gage the size of it and shrieked as his finger was stung and he brought the injured finger to his mouth and tasted blood on his tongue. Bilbo glared at where he perceived the blade to be, for a blade it was and finely made and sharp as well. Why such an object should be found here was suspect. To the race of men it could be considered a dagger but as a hobbit at three foot six it was as good as a sword and he would take the chance finding as a good omen. 

“I ought to call you Sting, as that is what you have done to me.” Bilbo spoke to the blade and having no sheath he tucked the sword inside his breeches so that only the hilt was protruding from his waistband and he continued to crawl to get his bearings. 

To his relief he finds that he is not trapped as he once thought and he crawls forward following the tunnel that descends steadily and kept in the same direction in spite of a twist or an occasional turn. The tunnel seemed endless and the still silence was oppressive but the smell of the earth and the feel of soil between his fingers eased his discomfort and reminded him of home. He thought about his bench in his garden where he would blow smoke rings and wait for the post and breathe in the country air that was thick with pollen in the spring. He thought about the pretty coloured flowers in his garden, the red roses and yellow daffodils and purple pansies. Colour was important to him, more so than ever now that he was engulfed in darkness that threatened to seep into his pores and mute the colours he had come to adore. 

While he is musing on painting his bench the same colour as his door his hands splashes into icy cold water and he pauses, confused. He takes a moment to listen but can hear no sound of running water so before him is a lake or a puddle. He reaches forward to find out which and his hand sinks further down, suggesting the former much to his disappointment.

“Splashes and splashes.”

“I beg your pardon?” Bilbo calls out to the shadows. 

“What is it my preciouss?” a voice hissed in the distance, though much too near for Bilbo’s comfort. “Is it nice? Is it juicy? Is it scrumptiously crunchable?” 

“My name is Bilbo Baggins,” Bilbo called out confidently whilst shaking like a leaf as he could see nor hear anything but knew he was in imminent danger. 

“Bagginses?” The voice called out, closer than before and Bilbo was quite sure he saw two large lamp-like eyes stare into his own, enough to give him a fright and make him stand and stagger backwards. 

Faintly he hears the strike of a match and then a flickering orange glow illuminates the lake in front of him and a horrible creature holding the torch. The creature is like nothing Bilbo had seen before with a head too big for his grey starving body that was covered only in a dirty loincloth and each rib was visible on his thin chest. His eyes were large having adapted to the dark and a few long dark wisps of hair hung down from his otherwise bald head. 

“We’ve eaten goblinses, fishes and batses but we’ve never had a Bagginses before.” Bilbo turned alarmed when the creature implied there were more than one but if there were he could not see them. 

“Could you help me? I need to find my way back to the labyrinth.”

“Lost is it?”

“Yes and I would like to be unlost so if you could show me the way out I will be much obliged.”

“Oh we knows safe passage, safe passage is right...shut up!” Bilbo paused, confused.

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“I wasn’t talking to you!” The creature spat, glaring contemptuously at the hobbit. 

“Oh right,” Bilbo muttered quite sure the creature was deranged and talking to himself. “Please could you help me? The Dwarven King has my cousin and he is forcing me to play his...”

“Play does it?” The creature interrupted, giddily. “Does it play? Does it? Oh let’s have a game.” If this was another trick of the king’s Bilbo was not impressed. “Enough! Dash his head with a rock, presciouss, that’s a fat tasty morsel.” The creature advanced with broken yellowed teeth bared and hunger in his eyes and Bilbo was forced to pull the sword from his trousers and wave it threateningly before him. 

“Stay back! You stay back; I will use this if I have to.” The creature wailed in response and thankfully stopped his pursuit but Bilbo refused to lower his weapon even when the thought of using it turned his stomach. He listened to the creature’s whining and considered his options, he was lost and this creature knew the way out though he would not say as he was determined to murder him. He was quite sure his mother never mentioned this in the story and now he was here it seemed a dreadful oversight. 

“Shall we have a game of riddles?” Bilbo offered, and watched the creatures thin lips turn upwards and he nodded enthusiastically. “How about a little wager too? If I win, you show me the way out?” The creature continued to nod.

“And if we win we eats the Bagginses whole,” the creature said happily and Bilbo swallowed nervously. 

“Fair enough,” it wasn’t, it was madness but just like the labyrinth this whole situation was unfair and he could only try his best. 

“Alive without breath, as cold as death. Never thirsty, ever drinking, all in mail never clinking.” Bilbo felt he should know the answer but it wasn’t forthcoming so instead he looked at his tormentor and smiled as it dawned on him. 

“Fish.” He replied smugly. “An eye in a blue face saw an eye in a green face. ‘That eye is like to this eye’ said the first eye, ‘but in low place not in high place.’” Bilbo was feeling quite pleased with himself sure that a creature of darkness such as this knew nothing of the sun and flowers. 

“Sun on the daisies it means, it does.” The creature finally gave the correct answer and they continued to trade riddles back and forth. Any other time Bilbo would have enjoyed having such a clever opponent but the stakes were too high to appreciate the creature’s mind. 

The game begins to drag and had Bilbo’s life not been on the line he would have been quite happily bested and call a forfeit. However he was not in a position to do so and though he would continue the creature was becoming as weary and hungry as he.

“It’s got to ask us a question, my precious, just one more question to guess and then we eats it, precious.” Bilbo startled at the creature’s confession knowing he must win or die. He had already used his best riddles but he thought about the creature’s words and found salvation in them. It was terribly clever if somewhat underhanded however considering the king’s behaviour toward him it was very much deserved. “Ask us, ask us!”

“What have I got in my pocket?” He asked smugly knowing the creature couldn’t possibly guess correctly.

“Not fair, how do we knows what its got it in its nasty little pocketses?”

“Well?” Bilbo tapped his foot impatiently. 

“It must give us three guesses, my precious, three guesses.”

“Very well, guess away.”

“Handses!”

“Wrong,” Bilbo merrily cheered holding up his hands. “Guess again.”

“Fish-bone, bat wing, goblin teeth, no no no, knife!” He said at last and Bilbo shook his head.

“Wrong, last guess.” The creature before him wailed and threw himself on the floor like a fauntling sent to bed without supper bemoaning the injustice inflicted upon him. “Come on, I am waiting,” Bilbo snapped impatiently, tired of the creature’s theatrics. “Well that’s it then, time’s up.”

“String or nothing!” The creature cried out.

“That was two guesses and both were wrong.” Bilbo replied quite proud of himself though he did not like to boast. The creature cried pitifully but Bilbo was unmoved by his sorrow as he was quite pleased to be off the menu. “Come now, remember your promise? I want to go and you said you would show me the way.” 

“Did we say so, precious? Did we?” The creature asked hugging his bony knees to his chest while fat miserable tears rolled down his hollow cheeks. 

“Yes you did say so, and I mean for you to keep your word.” Bilbo blurted angrily and was taken by surprised by his new found courage. To prove he meant what he said he swung his sword to remind the creature he was very much armed but not so much dangerous. 

The creature moaned and crawled towards the lake away from the fallen torch and choked as though he had a mucus cough crying ‘gollum’ with each wretched heave. It was a pitiful sight and this time Bilbo was moved as though he was looking upon an abused and starved dog. He lowered his weapon upset with himself for behaving so cruelly when the creature immediately turned sensing his surrender and threw a slimy rock at his head, catching his ear and wetting his mousy blond hair. 

Bilbo fled as fast as his large feet could take him, skirting around the lake with the diminishing torch light behind him. The creature shrieked and coughed, crying out insults and threats and Bilbo ran until the light was gone and he could see no further. He fell onto his knees and felt around in the dark and pressed himself tightly against the cavern wall as light slowly began to appear again as the creature searched for him. 

“Where is it? Where is it? It’s off to the back door, gollum. It knows a way in it must knows a way out.” Bilbo cowered against the wall as the torchlight approached but the creature was convinced he had made his escape that he was no longer searching for him and instead was trying to race him to the back door. 

Allowing the creature to get ahead of him Bilbo followed quietly behind him as it spoke to itself, reminding himself what turns to take. It was a labyrinth but that shouldn’t have surprised him as he had never left the labyrinth and this was just a nasty trap set by the king. He was aware the king was unimpressed with him as he tried to throttle him in Bag End but to throw him to his death was rather harsh considering he had done nothing to warrant such mean behaviour. 

“Noooo!” The creature cried out suddenly and Bilbo ducked down and pressed himself against the wall. “It’s gone, Baggins has gone! We can’t go after it, gollum, gollum, it’s gone forever!” Bilbo desperately wished to see what had upset the creature as he laid himself over a boulder weeping. Bilbo stayed still until the creature picked up the torch once more and scurried down a tunnel but Bilbo was not left in the dark as he saw light and he followed the source. To his relief he found there was indeed a backdoor but a huge boulder had been pushed against it to seal the exit but there was a gap no more than four feet tall, enough space for a hobbit to squeeze through. 

Throwing caution to the wind Bilbo ran for the gap but had not considered the size of his stomach and he managed to wedge himself. He must have made a noise as he watched the torchlight reappear and the creature’s eyes widened as it found him trapped. Bilbo shouted and squirmed as the creature advanced licking bloodless lips as though savouring a meal he had mentally devoured.

“No, no, please, no!” Bilbo panicked as the creature reached for him. As a last-ditch attempt at freedom, Bilbo sucked in his gut as tight as he could and felt his brass buttons tear off his waistcoat striking the creature in the eye as he slid through the gap and fell onto the forest floor. He watched in horror as pale large thin hands, twice the size of his own reached through the gap trying to grasp his ankle. 

Bilbo scurried backwards without standing resembling a beetle caught in the candlelight and he screamed when he knocked into something that was most certainly a leg. “Don’t eat me!” he shrieked as his heart threatened to burst from his chest. 

“I’m a bit peckish but I think yer alright,” the owner of the leg joked and Bilbo scrambled to his feet and turned having heard the voice before. 

“Bofur!” He cried in joy, dropping his sword to the ground and pulled the odd looking dwarf into his arms.

“Well isn’t this cosy.” A deep voice drawled behind Bilbo and the hobbit immediately released Bofur and stood behind him separating himself from the Dwarven King. 

“Yer Majesty,” Bofur greeted.

“Bozo.”

“Bofur,” Bofur corrected with an unfamiliar edge to his voice. 

“How are you enjoying my labyrinth?” The king asked looking right through Bofur and staring into Bilbo’s very soul.

“It’s a piece of cake,” Bilbo replied giving up his position behind Bofur and glaring right back. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Bofur shaking his head willing him to stand down but he knew he had to make the king respect him, though whether that was for the mission or his own self-esteem he could not be sure. 

“Really? Then how about upping the stakes?” The clock appears once more and he sees that four hours and seven minutes have past. To his horror the king speeds up the clock making it seven minutes past seven. 

“That isn’t fair!” Bilbo protests and the king rounds on him standing so close he forgets to breathe.

“Life isn’t fair,” the king snaps as though speaking from experience. For a moment he gets lost in the king’s eyes so like the stone he tried to barter with, stunning and swirling with emotion. Someone clears their throat but it was neither him nor the king and instead he turns to see Bofur looking sheepish and when he turns back the king is gone. 

“Well that was weird,” Bofur chirps and it is Bilbo’s turn to clear his throat.

“How so?” He asks timidly. 

“Thorin never leaves his palace.”

“Well then he’s making every effort to undermine me, the horrible attractive dwarf.” The news that the king had left his palace could be taken as an ill omen but Bilbo saw it as vindication that the king saw him as a worthy foe. 

“Attractive?” Bofur asked suddenly.

“Sorry?”

“You think Thorin is attractive?”

“What? No!” Bilbo replied blushing to the tips of his ears. 

“You just said he was attractive.”

“I meant atrocious, horrible, and thoroughly despicable. He has no redeeming qualities what-so-ever.” 

“If ye say so,” Bofur replied unconvinced and began to venture into the woods. 

“I do,” Bilbo picked up his sword, tucking it into his trousers and followed Bofur. 

“I believe ya; many wouldn’t since you were looking at Thorin like a determined squirrel wanting to climb a tree.” Bilbo spluttered as Bofur laughed. 

Deciding that further denials would only incriminate himself, Bilbo chose to remain quiet and simply enjoyed the company of another. Bofur seemed to be around his age, the king as well and both appeared to be unattached like Bilbo which was a refreshing change. He was at an awkward stage in his life having not settled down whilst people his own age had and most were working on making a second child, while he hadn’t even contemplated a first. By his life choices he felt excluded by that particular social circle and his other cousins were far too young to socialise with so he had become somewhat of an outcast. He knew that the other hobbits considered him an oddity and he was well aware of the whispered ‘Mad Baggins’ as he passed by as well as the tuts and shakes of the head as overreaching hobbits gazed at Bag End with dashed dreams. 

“Oh no,” Bilbo stopped at Bofur’s outburst and looked ahead to see what had troubled the dwarf. Some meters ahead a bedraggled creature, man or dwarf he could not tell because of the hunched back and discoloured grey grisly beard was muttering to himself whilst snatching up mushrooms and depositing them into a woven basket hung from his arm. 

“Relative of yours?” Bilbo asks due to the grey misshapen hat with a resemblance to Bofur’s own. 

“Now that’s just rude, come on before he sees us.” The mushroom collector seems harmless enough if somewhat eccentric but Bilbo supposed certain mushrooms and the horrid murky woods would do that to a person. 

“He might be able to help us.” Bilbo ignored the shake of Bofur’s head and stepped forward towards the person. “Hello?” The man startled and froze with his back to the hobbit. “Could you help me please?” Bilbo continued shortening the space between them. “Could you tell me how to get to Erebor?” The person turned and he found it was indeed a man in ruined brown robes that seemed as if they may have been expensive years prior. The man is old, fidgeting and if he is not mistaken there is a large amount of bird mess down the side of his face and in his hair.

“Dark things in that place, terrible things.” The man warns staring out into the distance. “I have heard things, the cry of a child.”

“Frodo! Please can you show me the way?”

“I cannot do that but quite often it seems like we are not getting anywhere when in fact we are.” The man says mysteriously and Bilbo is reminded of Gandalf, a wandering wizard that sold the most amazing fireworks and told the most outlandish stories. His words of advice were always wishy-washy and he imagines those two together would get along well. 

Having dispensed with his advice the man lifts his hat and two birds fly from a nest made from his hair and he pushes his hat back down and steps away. “But I will say this,” the man says as an afterthought. “Keep going in the way that you have and you will be at the beginning.” The man then rushes off and vanishes into the trees and he turns to see a very contrite dwarf. 

“Bofur?” The use of his name is accusation enough and his heart aches when the once chipper dwarf averts his eyes. 

“I never said I was going to Erebor.” Bofur mutters, kicking at the dirt with his rectangular boot. 

“But you knew I was following you. I thought that we were friends and that you were helping me.” Bilbo replies sadly.

Bofur says nothing in response and tension builds between them until the suffocating silence is interrupted by a terrible roar that sounded as though a large animal was hurt. “Come,” Bilbo says, ignoring Bofur’s actions against him as he was a peaceful creature and could not hold a grudge. “This way,” he encouraged following the sound of anguish but the dwarf would not follow. 

“I’m sorry, Bilbo, I can’t go with you.” Bofur confessed with a set unsmiling mouth.

“Bofur please,” Bilbo begged, torn between reassuring the dwarf that there were no ill-feelings and aiding the creature that was wailing in agony. When it became apparent that Bofur would not follow, Bilbo took his leave and dashed through the woods following the agonised moans. 

“Just a minute!” Bilbo called out doubting that his words would be understood but he hoped the sound of his voice would convey that help was on the way. The wailing became less frequent but Bilbo was unsure if that was a good or bad sign as the animal could be either calmed that help was coming or dying. 

As he drew closer he could hear the sound of metal clanging followed by a roar of rage and was quite convinced an animal was caught in a trap. He continued on through the dense forest ignoring branches that lashed him and thistles that stung his ankles until he came to a circular clearing where one lone dead tree stood with a gibbet strung from a thick gnarled branch.

Bilbo had read about gibbets used in darker times when powers were abused and lives were lost. The metal monstrosity could be likened to a human birdcage and was meant to display the dead and allow bird and beast to defile the corpse, dishonouring the victim long after death. It was a truly horrid thing with blackened steel and built for a wicked purpose not to house a very angry dwarf. 

“What are you looking at?” The dwarf snapped cantankerously and rattled the unforgiving steel structure. Bilbo was surprised the metal did not bend to his will as the dwarf was large, taller than the king with a bald tattooed crown and a thick bushy brown beard. “Help then!” the dwarf yelled slamming his open palms against the cage door. 

Bilbo did not wish to admit that the dwarf made him nervous and had the same nasty aura as the Dwarven King. He was dressed similarly to the king as well with leather, fur and chainmail, but from there the similarities ended. Thorin was like tempered steel compared to the dwarf in the cage and between them far more approachable which was a poor reflection on the caged dwarf’s character. 

Deciding not to upset the dwarf further, Bilbo eyed the rope that held the gibbet and pulled Sting from his trousers, ignoring the dwarf’s mocking laughter at his blade. He had half a mind to turn around and leave the dwarf but he could not find it in himself to do such a thing. He would help and then ask for directions and then he would leave as it seemed the dwarf desired his company as much as he desired the gibbet. 

Climbing the tree was simple enough even with a sword in his hands. Hobbits were resourceful creatures with a penchant for climbing and digging though it was said they were not too smart and he felt terrible when he proved the stereotype correct. He had only meant to saw at the rope so the gibbet had a better chance of landing upright but he had not considered the sharpness of the blade and he watched Sting cut through the rope like knife through butter and the cage fell landing on its side upsetting the dwarf and throwing him onto his back. 

Bilbo scurried down the tree eager to help but his assistance was futile as the captured dwarf kicked out with two massive feet and forced the cage door open and he climbed out giving Bilbo a withering look. 

“I am so sorry,” Bilbo apologised but the dwarf’s glare became one of contempt. “My name is...”

“I know who you are!” The dwarf interrupted gruffly. “You’re the reason why I was in that damn thing,” he accused and kicked the gibbet. 

“Surely you have me confused with someone else, I do not know you.”

“No, but I know you, Bilbo Baggins of Bag End.” Bilbo merely gaped at the use of his name and home thoroughly confused. 

“You have me at a disadvantage then Mister...?” The dwarf paused and crossed his arms over his thick chest considering the question. 

“Dwalin and I am no longer at your service.”

“I hadn’t known you were in my service,” Bilbo replied smartly. “Could you please tell me the way to Erebor and then you are free to go and we’ll say no more.” 

“You’re soft,” Dwalin snapped. “Kindly creature of the West, full of optimism and hope, it’s sickening. You’ve no business being here.” 

“I agree with you,” Bilbo replied with a humourless laugh. “However a series of unfortunate events have led me here and if you could just show me the way I would be very grateful and out of your… hair.” Bilbo paused at the poor choice of words and averted his eyes while Dwalin shook his head.

“You can’t defeat Thorin, have you learnt nothing? Your continued presence here is only fueling his rage, he even sent his nephews to steer you from the path.” Bilbo considers Dwalin’s words and remembers the two boys arguing by the doors with the impossible riddle. He had been tricked, he had solved the riddle but the doors did not lead to where they had said and both doors would have led him to that horrible creature that lived in the dark. He should have known considering the dark haired one looked like Thorin but he had taken them both at their word and had paid for it. “I didn’t agree with that,” Dwalin states, holding his hands up. “I told him as well and he banishes me, me! His best friend and all because of you!” 

“Well I am sorry but please understand that I never meant to come between you and Thorin.” Dwalin turned his head and scoffed at his confession. “You behave as if I wish to be here.” 

“Don’t you?” Dwalin challenged, ignoring all that has been said. “You said the words.”

“Yes, to what I assumed was a mythical character,” Bilbo retorted. “I can see you will not help me so I shall bid you good day,” Bilbo said stiffly and turned to consider the path he should take. 

A surprised gruff laugh interrupts his thoughts and Bilbo turns to eye Dwalin questioningly. “I warn you of the king’s rage and still you go on ahead? That’s quite a pair of brass balls you have there, Mister Baggins.” The dwarf continues to chuckle while Bilbo arches a brow. Dwalin seemingly recovers from his amusement and gifts the hobbit a rare and somewhat forced bow. “Dwalin, at your service.” 

“You will help me?” Bilbo asked, surprised and turns towards the dwarf. 

“Aye as best I can, but how much help I can be I could not say as I’ve never left Erebor before.”

“Were you...were you taken as well?” Bilbo hesitates to ask. 

“Oh no born and raised. Now quit yapping or you’ll not find the boy in time.” It is with caution that Bilbo allows the dwarf to accompany him rather than lead him as it was the blind leading the blind. 

He felt awful that he questioned Dwalin’s motives but hobbits at their very hearts were naturally suspicious of those outside of their own race and Bofur had recently betrayed him. Bofur had even spoken unkindly about the king and yet was his agent while Dwalin had admitted they were once friends and judging by his sad expressive eyes it was a relationship he very much missed. Bilbo believed the dwarf to be honest as he did not try to lead as by his own admission he did not know the way and Bilbo was glad of the company even if Dwalin did not think kindly of him. He respected the honesty. Dwalin blamed him for his severed friendship with the king by admonishing his friend for his unscrupulous actions and though Bilbo wasn’t directly responsible such an argument would not have been had if he were not in the labyrinth. 

The silence between them is weighted with anger and guilt and Bilbo knows they cannot be friends. He cannot fault Dwalin’s decision to dislike him and he believes had he had a best friend and some stranger came between them he would not accept their friendship either. He should be glad of the company as he was tired of being alone but Dwalin was distancing himself so they could not bond during their journey. 

“What? Mutter, mutter, mutter, that’s all you do!” Bilbo stopped in his tracks and turned to the dwarf, irate.

“I beg your pardon?” He asked standoffishly while Dwalin looked down at him in confusion. 

“What?” Dwalin snapped irritably. 

Bilbo opened his mouth to chastise the dwarf when he heard garbled speech as though the person’s mouth was gagged. He shared a look of confusion with Dwalin and they walked to the next clearing where two oak trees stood with doors within their trunks and golden door knockers in the shape of dwarf heads which appeared to be moving. 

“Another trick?” Bilbo asked, tilting his head up questioningly at Dwalin but the dwarf only shrugged in reply. Having already succumbed to the king’s mind games once Bilbo was reluctant to allow history to repeat itself however he was quite convinced they were going in circles and were making no progress so he approached with Dwalin following cautiously behind him. 

“Hello,” Bilbo greeted, standing between the two doors and eyed the door knockers. The one on the right had a large forehead with a receding hairline and a braided forked beard that curled like Bofur’s and his ears were plugged by the handle. The one on the left had an axe embedded in its skull with short but wild hair and his mouth was gagged by the handle. “Could you tell me where these doors lead to?”

“What?” The knocker on the right bellowed. 

“Idmi d’dum,” the left replied in his garbled speech. Unsure how to remove the handle from the door knocker’s ears, Bilbo instead pulled the handle from the left door knocker’s mouth. “Ah, much better!” The knocker spoke clearly and stretched his mouth out making the most absurd faces. “Welcome to the Hall,” he greeted and Bilbo turned seeing only trees and no hall to speak of.

“An old dwarven welcome,” Dwalin supplied with an eye-roll over his confusion. 

“Where do these doors lead to?”

“No idea, we’re just the knockers.” Bilbo assumed the raised eyebrows were a shrug and looked between the two.

“How do I get through?” 

“Don’t ask him he’s as deaf as a post,” the left said as Bilbo’s eyes strayed to the right.

“Speak properly! Mumble, that’s all you do, now what does the little thing want?” Bilbo tried not to be offended by being referred to as short or a thing and he ignored Dwalin’s amused chuckle behind him. 

“See? In answer to your question, knock and the door will open.” Bilbo turned to Dwalin hoping for his input but Dwalin only shrugged noncommittally and Bilbo began to wonder why the dwarf had even bothered to follow him. 

Assuming the king would not use the same trick twice, Bilbo approached the door knocker to place the handle into his mouth once more but the knocker pressed his lips together pointedly and levelled him with a glare.

“Please, I wish to knock.” The knocker shook his head. “I haven’t the time for this,” Bilbo complained but the knocker was defiant. Against his better judgement Bilbo reached up and pressed the axe inwards forcing the knocker to cry out in pain. He shoved the handle back into his mouth and knocked and gazed at the furious knocker, sadly. “I am sorry.”

“Khagun menu penu rukhs,” the knocker mumbled as the door opened and Bilbo stepped through with Dwalin at his heels. 

The ground did not give way so Bilbo released his breath and carried on along the path. Unfortunately they were still in the woods though much darker than before and glowing eyes of red, yellow and green watched them hungrily from the thistles. He sped up when his nerves were tested to their limit as he knew he could not rely on Dwalin for support and he was unwilling to show his companion how truly frightened he was. 

Dwalin remained silent but was a comforting presence at his back especially as the path began to descend and he was sure he heard faint voices among the trees and disquieting laughter that was both beautiful and eerie. The further they travelled the more Bilbo was convinced they were not alone as on occasion laughter would bubble up from behind them or he would catch a verse of a silly song on the wind. Despite his unease Bilbo carried on, ignoring the scuttling creatures that disturbed the dead leaves on the forest floor and the various other sounds he had not heard in the woods until he had passed through the door. 

The one thing that he could not ignore was the smell of cooking meat over an open fire. His mouth watered each time he caught a scent of the heavenly meal and his stomach groaned in protest forcing him to clutch his belly as if he could stifle the sound. He did not wish to give Dwalin ammunition to use against him by calling him a soft fat creature that belonged in the kitchen even if he did agree and thought longingly of his packed pantry and the fish he had planned for supper. His worry was for nothing as Dwalin’s gut began to whine, conversing with his own creating a symphony of hunger that frightened many a squirrel that crossed their path. 

The thought of a meal was tempting and confirmed his suspicion that they were not alone and frankly Bilbo did not care if they were goblins so long as they would share their food. However locating the source proved to be difficult as it came and went, wafting from one way and then from another as if the feast was constantly moving and feast it was judging from the smell. 

Bilbo trudged on begrudgingly silently cursing the Dwarven King believing the feast was another ruse to break his spirit. He was beginning to dislike that dwarf more with every step and yet he felt compelled to prove himself to the king so that he might stop glaring at him and know his worth. He was almost tempted to question Dwalin about the king since they were once the best of friends and he felt if he had some understanding of him they might be able to parlay and put an end to the aggravation between them. However when he turned to question the dwarf and saw naught but sadness etched on his face he could not find it in himself to be so cruel as to mention the reason for his despair. 

Up ahead Bilbo froze as he saw a red twinkle burst into life among the trees which was quickly followed by three more. Laughter and song were heard once more, louder than before and the smell of food was overwhelming. He did not know who acted first, whether it was himself or Dwalin but they both ran towards the flames ignorant of any danger and barged into the clearing with felled trees. Instantly the flames extinguished and the revelers were gone along with the food that he was quite sure he had imagined it all had Dwalin not followed. 

Deciding not to speak of their wasted exertion they walked on slower than before disheartened and hungry. Each step was a chore and though he could not speak for Dwalin his own feet felt like lead but he staggered on. His thoughts kept threatening to turn towards food but he steered them back to the mission by remembering the king taunting him in Bag End. He had told him to stay at home, sit in his armchair in front of a fire and read about an adventure because he was not made to have one. Fury coiled in his gut at the thought and spurred him on when otherwise he might have failed. 

“The lights are coming out again over there,” Dwalin informed him, leaning down to whisper into his ear causing Bilbo to jump. 

“No rushing forward this time,” Bilbo said thoughtfully after they scrambled through the undergrowth and waited in hiding behind an old oak tree. “We shall treat them with respect and hope that they show good will towards us.” It seemed a perfectly good plan but before Bilbo put the plan into motion he wanted to glimpse those he wished to entreat with. 

Looking out from behind the tree Bilbo saw there were many folks, elvish-looking all dressed in greens and browns with green and white gems glimmering on their collars and belts. Their long straight hair was twined with flowers and their laughs were no longer sinister but merry as they passed bowls of food along the table. His stomach twisted at the thought of a meal and he wondered to which elf he would entreat so that a little meat may pass his lips. One stood out from the others in long silver robes with a crown of leaves upon his white-blond head and he watched over the other feasters from his seat at the head of the table. Bilbo stepped forward ready to make his plea before Dwalin grasped his shoulder and pulled him back none too gently. 

“We need to get out of here!” Dwalin hissed, panicked. 

“They seem a merry bunch, I’m sure they’ll share.”

“You don’t understand, that’s Thranduil and if he catches you he’ll lock you away and no one escapes his prison. You’ll not save Frodo and you’ll never leave the labyrinth.”

Bilbo eyed the dwarf skeptically. “That is a low opinion you have on elves. Why would he imprison me? For what crime have I committed? You do not trust easily Mister Dwalin.”

“And you trust too easily Master Baggins!” Dwalin retorted testily. “If my opinion is low then I wager yours is far too high. These are not High Elves from the West, they are dangerous and less-wise and pesky little buggers at that.” 

“Surely Thorin’s stooge has not come all this way to merely insult us.” A clear voice rang out above them and Bilbo looked up to see a white-blond haired elf in the tree with a red headed companion. Bilbo was reminded of the elf wearing the crown but as he turned his gaze to the feast once more the elf was still seated drinking a large glass of wine.  
“We meant no insult, we are weary and hungry and we were...”

“What is that goblin mutant?” The rude elf interrupted and his companion tittered in reply. “Guards! Seize them!” 

“Run Bilbo!” Dwalin shouted and Bilbo did not hesitate to follow his instruction as he took off following Dwalin as best he could. The dwarf was taller and longer in the leg than he so he had to work twice as hard to keep up as he heard cat calls and shouts behind them from the horrible elves that hunted them.

 

Meanwhile some distance away Bofur paced whilst wringing his hat nervously between his dirty fingers. He was not a bad soul but he had done a terrible disservice to Bilbo for his own gain and he simply felt terrible. He was torn in two desiring to help the hobbit and yet knowing what would happen to him if he did so. Thorin was not an unjust king but he was set in his ways and unreasonable and Bofur should consider himself lucky that Thorin chose him to be his agent and to jeopardise Bilbo’s mission. He had readily agreed and accepted the king’s terms but then he had met Bilbo and he realised he could not be so callous to such a kind brave creature. 

The silence that engulfs him is broken by the ludicrous cries of the elves followed by Bilbo’s voice desperately calling for someone. Bofur felt his heart plummet knowing that Bilbo was in danger from the wood elves. He assumed Bilbo must have been making good time if Thorin felt it necessary to not only throw him to Gollum but now he had led him on the path to Thranduil.

Deciding he could live with his guilt no more, Bofur turned to follow the cries of his friend only to come face to face with King Thorin. “My King,” he greeted with a bow of his head.

“Buffoon.”

“Bofur,” Bofur corrected biting his lower lip so he did not give the king a piece of his mind.

“And where might you be going?” Thorin asked with a nasty look in his ice blue eyes. 

Bofur was not the best liar and he was caught unawares but he racked his brain for a decent excuse. “I was just going to collect the hobbit, take ‘im back to the beginning like we discussed.” 

“You are committing treason, you know? Betraying your king.” Thorin warned pacing before him like a riled predator. 

“I would never betray you,” Bofur tried to appease the king and placed his hat on his head for fear his nervous wringing would prove his words false. 

The king continued to pace and Bofur could only assume Bilbo’s progress had the regal dwarf troubled. “Good, as I need you to do something for me, Bofur.” Any other time the king remembered his name Bofur would have rejoiced but now he used it pointedly which was far more damning had he simply gotten it wrong. 

“I won’t hurt Bilbo!” Bofur snapped and quickly covered his mouth though it was far too late to take back his words. The king looked irate but then laughed humourlessly which sent shivers down his spine. 

The king sobered and his lips twisted into a nasty smirk. “You don’t think Bilbo could love a repulsive little scab like you?” Thorin asked with a bark of laughter at Bofur’s expense. 

“Well he did say that we were...”

“What, bosoms companions?” Thorin snapped. “Friends?” He continued to torment stepping closer to where Bofur cowered. “You will do as I say or you know what will happen to you.” Bofur turned his head away as the king got into his face forcing him to bare his neck in submission. 

“What do ye want me to do?” He asked ashamedly.

“Nothing so horrible,” Thorin reassured him with an unnecessarily hard pat on his shoulder before stepping away. “Give him this,” he states and Bofur turns to see a peach materialise in the king’s hand. “I imagine he’s terribly hungry by now and you like to play the hero, don’t you, Bofur?” 

“What is it?”

The king looked at the object in his hand and then back to Bofur with an incredulous look on his face. “It’s a peach.” 

“I know that but what will it do? I won’t hurt him, Thorin; you can’t make me hurt him.” 

“Your sentimentality makes me sick, but rest assured no harm shall befall the hobbit; the peach will merely put things into perspective. I find him bothersome and a burden and he has no place amongst us and soon he will know, now do as you’re told.” Reluctantly Bofur accepts the proffered peach and pockets it while the king watches on appeased. “Oh and Bofur?” The king questions as an afterthought. “If Bilbo ever hugs you again our deal is off and you know your fate.” With his last threat uttered the king vanishes and Bofur trembles in fear until Bilbo’s cries echo once more and he runs to aid the hobbit. 

 

The soles of hobbit feet were thick like leather and a thatch of hair a shade darker than on their head kept their feet warm in the winter making shoes unnecessary. The sheer size of their feet was good for balance and the length of their toes made climbing easier but none of that mattered when elves twice his size were chasing him. How they had not caught him he did not know but he assumed the elves preferred to terrorise them by yelling and shaking bushes and it worked a treat. 

Bilbo’s heart was hammering in his chest as he ran behind Dwalin though his mind still wondered why the elves were not dedicated to the chase. His questions were answered when he watched Dwalin stumble to a halt and he stilled beside him staring at the rocky surface of a cave that spanned the distance of the eastern edge of the forest as far as the eye could see. 

“Thranduil’s palace,” Dwalin spat with distaste and Bilbo realised they had not been chased but rather herded to their prison. 

“You betrayed me?” He asked, stung by the apparent betrayal as he had followed Dwalin. 

The tall dwarf glared down at him with brown eyes usually filled with sadness but now consumed with rage. “Yeah, because I really want to spend the rest of my life in a cell!” Dwalin snapped. 

“Sorry,” Bilbo replied remorsefully. “Wait, can you hear that? Sounds like a river.” In the distance he could hear the horrid elves moving closer singing their moronic songs about their quarry. 

“That’s the Forest River, runs through Thranduil’s palace and out back where it becomes a waterfall and eventually flows into Long Lake. No good to us, I want to stay out of Thranduil’s cave and not sure about you but I can’t swim.” 

“We have to do something!” Bilbo panicked looking left to right. “Summon the king, barter with the elves, something!” 

“I’ve nothing to barter with, have you?” Aside from a crushed and wilted daisy chain Bilbo had nothing of value on him and he noticed Dwalin did not even consider summoning Thorin as an option which spoke volumes. 

Bilbo watched his hopes fade like the sun falling below the horizon as the singing got closer and he caught glimpses of gleaming hair among the dead trees as the elves moved in on them. He considered calling for the Dwarven King in one last ditch attempt at salvation unwilling to believe his cause was lost when a thick coarse rope dropped from above him, striking his ear. 

“Grab hold, Bilbo!” Bofur’s voice came from above and beyond the mist. Bilbo immediately tugged the rope, testing if it could take his weight and when he was sure of it, he began to climb as quickly as he could. Dwalin followed soon after him, heedless of the ropes integrity as he was glad to be away from the elves that continued to be obnoxious below them. 

When he was within reach of the top of the rock, Bofur leant a hand and pulled him up unaware that he had company. Instead of informing Bofur about Dwalin, Bilbo was overcome with emotion and fearing words would not suffice he took the grinning dwarf into his arms. 

“No!” Bofur startled, pushing him away. “Ger off me!” Bilbo released him immediately, hurt and confused and stepped back dejected when the rock began to tremble beneath his feet. “Oh no,” Bofur gulped as the rock cracked open and Bilbo watched Bofur fall into the crevice moments before he succumbed to the same. He heard a shout seconds later and realised Dwalin had also fallen. 

Bilbo could not find it in himself to scream as he fell in a straight drop. His whole journey seemed to be a free-fall into the unknown and he had become so terrified that he was almost fed up with it. The drop was long, the depth of the crevice further than his fall into the cave and he began to think it was a trick and they were doomed to fall forever more when in reality they were unconscious and bewitched. 

His theory was proven false when at last he landed on something hard and cold. Beneath his hands it felt like metal and whatever he had fallen on succumbed to his weight as he felt himself steadily drift downwards as he heard the trickle of spilled coins. Bilbo blinked rapidly and waved his hand in front of his face but he could not see anything. His other senses made up for his temporary blindness and he heard the moaning of his two companions and the coins shifting beneath them and he found the air was hard to breathe as it was thick with smoke but there was no fire that he could see. 

“Well that could have been a lot worse,” Bofur chirped positively sounding somewhere to Bilbo’s right. 

Suddenly a torch on the far wall burst into life and like a wildfire the others followed one after another illuminating a hall in an orange glow and reflecting off piles upon piles of gold coins interspersed with gems and silver. 

Bilbo looked around awe struck as he found himself lying upon a sea of gold in a vast cavern with vaulted ceilings. “Are we in Erebor?” He asked enthusiastically remembering the tales of the king’s riches, of precious gems hewn from rock and great seams of gold running like rivers through stone. 

“No,” Dwalin barked. “We’re beneath the Goblin City that was once Dale.” 

“What is he doing here?” Bofur cried out suddenly and stumbled up to his feet. The coins shifted beneath his own feet unsteadying him as he also got to his feet while Dwalin stood as well, affronted. “Get away from ‘im, Bilbo, you don’t know who he is.” 

“He is my friend,” Bilbo announced standing between the two irate dwarves. 

“Aye, but yer not as good a friend as Thorin is to him. He’s working for Thorin!” Bilbo placed a halting hand on Bofur’s chest as the usually chipper dwarf approached aggressively towards Dwalin. 

“That’s rich!” Dwalin snapped and Bofur seethed, grinding his crooked teeth. “And if you haven’t noticed Thorin has thrown me to Smaug too!” Bilbo paused and looked between the once irate but now scared looking dwarves. 

“Who is Smaug?” 

Dwalin was not forthcoming with any information but Bofur’s shoulders slumped at his question. “Think furnace with wings, airborne fire-breather. Teeth like razors, claws like meat hooks, extremely fond of precious metals. He’ll melt the flesh off your bones in a blink of an eye.”

“Dragon?!” Bilbo asked, startled. 

“I guess it’s not so bad, worse ways to go I suppose. Flash of light. Searing pain and then puff! You’re nothing more than a pile of ash.” 

“Yes, thank you for that, Bofur.” Bilbo said testily while he felt light headed. “I think I need to sit down.” He went to sit but Bofur quickly caught him beneath the arm and hefted him up.

“No time for that, you can sit when yer dead.” Bilbo’s head was swimming as Bofur pulled him along and Dwalin followed behind them. He stared at the wealth his feet sank into marvelling at the rubies, emeralds, sapphires and diamonds among round golden coins depicting the Dwarven King. 

Whilst Bofur was distracted and bickering with Dwalin on their best plan of escape Bilbo lent down and picked up one of the gold coins and pocketed it. Hobbits were not enamoured with treasure as dwarves were and it was no love for gold that inspired him to take the coin but rather for what the coin depicted. “If this is not Erebor, why does Smaug have Erebor’s gold?” Bilbo asked and Bofur shrugged.

“A bribe.” Dwalin answered. “Folk tend to fear those that have a pet dragon and the wealth of Erebor is unequalled. This,” Dwalin exclaimed with a sweep of his hand encompassing the hall. “Works out to be about a fourteenth of the share of Erebor, enough to appease a dragon.” Bilbo’s jaw dropped and Bofur continued to pull him along though he seemed to sink further with every step. 

The hall was quiet save for the racket they were making. Coins spilled like a roaring river and chalices and plates clashed and clanged as they were disturbed. Even their own pants and moans disturbed the quiet as they tried their very best to navigate along the gold which was forever shifting beneath their feet. 

“Wait, did you hear that?” Bofur stopped suddenly and Bilbo and Dwalin also paused though the coins continued to slide down before finally coming to a stop. Nothing was said and no one dare breathe when they heard the sound of coins in the distance. Unwilling to move but turning their heads to the northern corner of the hall they watched vapour form from behind the column that led to an antechamber. Fear ground their feet as they watched the head of a dragon emerge from behind the pillar with its mouth slightly parted revealing large sharp off-white teeth. Vapour coiled from its nostrils and amber reptilian eyes focused on them before a deep rumble like thunder echoed off the walls as the dragon laughed. “Run!” Bofur shouted and succumbing to his own fear he released Bilbo’s arm and took off running towards the steps east of the hall. Dwalin startled too and passed the hobbit as he dragged his feet through the endless gold to get to safety. Bilbo tried to follow but he was shorter than them both and whereas they had the strength of five men he could barely muster the strength of a single one. 

Smaug continued to chuckle amused by his quarry and Bilbo would have been offended if he hadn’t been so terrified and reminded of his mortality. He struggled on hoping Smaug found him entertaining and would let him live, when something large beneath the gold caught his foot and sent him tumbling down the pile of gold. He tried to grab hold of something to halt his descent but only grabbed handfuls of coins and gems while Bofur and Dwalin screamed after him. He was pleased to see they had made it to the stairs and out of harm’s way as he continued to roll and could no longer see them. 

When he finally reaches the bottom of the pile he rolls three times on the stone floor before coming to a stop disorientated. His legs feel like jelly and his heart is beating so rampantly he was sure it would burst from his chest and scarper. 

“Well thief, I smell you and I feel your air. I hear your breath, show yourself.” Bilbo stood and watched the winged serpent turn its head slowly and amber eyes glinted in the torchlight before the creature approached using its large wings as front legs to crawl towards him. 

“O Smaug the Tremendous!” Bilbo cried out knowing that dragons were at their hearts self-obsessed and vain. “Forgive my intrusion, I only wished to have a look at you and see if you were as great as tales say as I did not believe them.” The dragon paused in his predatory approach and swished his great long tail that spanned half a league like a puppy would at its master’s return. 

“Do you now?” Smaug asked, flattered. 

“Truly songs and tales fall utterly short of the reality, O Smaug the Stupendous.” 

“You have nice manners,” the dragon observed continuing his approach. “For a thief and a liar,” he snapped suddenly, whipping his head towards Bilbo and gnashing his teeth. “Came here indeed, do you think I am not accustomed to the smell of dwarf? That I would not know the scent of Thorin Oakenshield? You reek of him, of his magic, just as all his tasty treats to me do.” 

“He did not send me to be your supper!” Bilbo claimed and covered his head as though it could ward off dragon fire.

“No?” Smaug asked intrigued. “Why did he send you and don’t let your imagination run away with you.” Smaug warned fully aware Bilbo was spinning him a story but it could get very lonesome in his vast halls beneath the Goblin City and Thorin rarely visited him anymore. 

“The King worried that you were alone and he sent me to keep you company, O Smaug the Mighty.” 

“You know my name but I do not know yours,” Smaug said whilst bedding down in the gold. 

“My name is Bilbo Baggins.”

“Ooooh it’s you, thoughtless of Thorin to send you to me without prior warning, I expect gifts for the confusion.” Bilbo nodded quickly to appease the dragon when in truth he hadn’t a clue how the creature knew of him. “More diamonds I should think, for denying me three meals. There is room for more upon my left breast and then I will surely be impenetrable.” Smaug raised up revealing his diamond encrusted chest and belly as though he no longer considered Bilbo a threat, or food but rather a friend. 

“What magnificence to possess a waistcoat of fine diamonds,” Bilbo complimented. “Surely one such as yourself should not be all alone, O Smaug the unassessably wealthy.” Smaug laughed and buried himself in the gold once more. 

“I do miss my conversations with Thorin, do tell him to visit me or else I will unleash death upon Dale a second time.” Bilbo nodded again unsure why Smaug was convinced he had any standing with the king. “I grow tired now, I was awakened under false pretences and I could eat fourteen horses. Bring me diamonds, a hundred should do and the king as well and then we may forget this rude awakening and I will let you keep that coin you stole from me.” Bilbo gaped; astonished as there were millions of coins and yet Smaug was aware he had taken a single one. 

“Thank you and you have my word, O Smaug the Chiefest and Greatest of Calamities.”

“I can see why Thorin likes you,” Smaug drawled whilst stretching out in his hoard. “You may leave and be quick about it; the scent of you is making me hungry.” Bilbo nodded and bowed and cast the dragon a tight smile before heading towards the eastern stairwell thoroughly confused. 

It seemed the dragon spoke honestly of his fatigue as moments later the hall vibrated with the rumbling of Smaug’s snores which were loud enough to mute Bilbo’s journey across the gold to the eastern stairwell. He had thought it would be a quest to find his companions again so he was rather surprised to find Bofur and Dwalin sat together on the steps in quiet camaraderie looking devastated.

Believing them to be in mourning for him, Bilbo could not stand their saddened expressions a moment longer and clapped his hands together to sound his arrival. “Who died?” He teased feeling jovial as the rush of adrenaline simmered in his veins.

“Bilbo!” Bofur cried out and leapt to his feet pulling Bilbo into the hug he had denied the hobbit. 

“By my beard, Master Baggins, there’s more to you than I thought.” Dwalin stated and stood though he kept his distance.

“Our Bilbo’s a regular little dragon whisperer,” Bofur states with a friendly arm around Bilbo’s shoulders unwilling to release the hobbit. 

“Oh Smaug’s not so bad,” Bilbo says waving away their compliments much to the dwarves’ surprise. “Do not look at me as though I have fallen and hit my head. Smaug is a good sort, for a dragon and he is lonely. These halls are vast and he is all alone and no amount of gold can make up for that.” For a moment he is reminded of Bag End and how he rattles around the place when no one comes to visit. “Let’s be off then,” he announces putting those thoughts to bed as he had more pressing concerns. “Do either of you know how to get out of here?” 

“Aye, the stairs lead all the way up to the goblin city of Moria,” Dwalin answered. 

“Formerly Dale?” Bilbo questioned as they began to walk up the stairs. 

“Dale it was before Smaug came. He killed their king and ate half the populace.”

“That’s awful!” Bilbo cried. “Did Thorin send him?” Dwalin paused and levelled Bilbo with such a glare it stole the air from his lungs and left him feeling hollow. 

“That’s a horribly low opinion you have on our king,” Dwalin growled offended. 

Any other time Bilbo would have apologised but since his time in the cave he had found his courage and he refused to be bullied. “Forgive me but he has not made a very splendid figure as king. He has kidnapped my cousin, assaulted me in my own home and attempted to throw me to my death not once but twice. So surely you can understand why I think him capable of sending a dragon to raze a city because he didn’t get his own way.”

There was a long pause before either one spoke again. “Smaug was wounded by King Girion with a black arrow before the building crumbled and the king fell to his death. Wounded but not killed, Smaug made his way to Erebor and Thorin left his throne and went to intercept him. He soon realised that Smaug’s wound was not fatal and though he led an army he knew the dead would be beyond the count of grief to see the dragon finished. So he offered Smaug a deal, a fourteenth of the wealth of Erebor deposited beneath the desolation of Dale in vast halls his forefathers once used. Smaug would not suffer the embarrassment of defeat, no further lives would be lost and it didn’t hurt to have a dragon indebted to him. That is the Thorin I know, that is the one I call King.” Dwalin snapped.

“Well...I...that was very admirable.” Bilbo finally conceded. “I wish he would be better behaved towards me. Perhaps I should have taken the Arkenstone,” Bilbo says with a shrug.

“Now why would you want to do a thing like that?” Bofur asked, aghast. “Coming ‘ere was bad enough and now you want to steal from the king too?” 

“I’m not a thief,” Bilbo replied, pointedly ignoring the coin in his pocket that proved otherwise. “He offered it to me,” he shrugged and continued to climb unaware that Bofur and Dwalin had stopped and were sharing worried looks between them. 

“The Arkenstone, are you sure?” Dwalin pressed. 

“That’s what he called it, the Heart of the Mountain? Swirls with colour and shines like a beacon about this big.” Bilbo stopped to gesture with his hands how big the gem was catching the look shared between the dwarves. 

“And he offered it to ye?” Bofur questioned and Bilbo nodded. “Can you remember what was said?”

Bilbo cast his mind back though it all felt so long ago he could barely put his thoughts in order. “He told me the name of it, showed it to me. What more was said I can’t be sure but the gist of it was a trade, the gem for Frodo. Now as nice as the stone was, it was just that and I would not trade Frodo’s life for it. Needless to say the king became unhappy with me and has been proving his disdain with every step I take. I am not a dwarf and I do not say this offensively but because of my nature I am not enamoured with gold and riches, food and drink and good cheer are worth more to me than that jewel.”

“It is more than that,” Dwalin protested and Bilbo sighed knowing a dwarf could not possibly understand. “It is the Heart of the Mountain and Thorin offered it to you.” Dwalin spoke slowly as though he was a simpleton.

“Yes, I do believe I just told you that.”

“And you refused it.”

“Are you going to repeat all that I say?” Bilbo asked heatedly. “He offered the Arkenstone, I said no. I imagine he offers the others who find themselves in this predicament the same.” 

“No, he doesn’t.” Dwalin stated pointedly though Bilbo hadn’t the faintest clue what his point was. 

“Actually,” Bofur interjected timidly. “You’re the first person to ever face the labyrinth.”

“Surely that can’t be true.”

“Not everyone who summons the king does so accidentally,” Bofur says sadly. 

“You mean...you were taken?” Bilbo asks gently unwilling to pry if Bofur was not forthcoming. 

The once chipper dwarf regarded him with sad eyes and a down turned mouth. “Aye, along with my brother and my cousin too. Ma couldn’t cope with my da’s passing, and she had to look after Bifur with his injury and Bombur with his gut so the dwarves came and took us away.” 

“Were you not always a dwarf?” Bilbo asked hesitantly remembering the tale, of stolen children forced to work in the mines forever and becoming dwarfs themselves. 

“Not always,” Bofur replies with a shrug and tries to smile. “Though what I once was I can’t remember, it was so long ago and the labyrinth is a tale known to all races including orcs.” 

“So, you’re not the only one he had taken? There have been more?” 

“Plenty more before and after me and yet you’re the only one that’s made their way here. Never heard of the king being summoned accidentally until you arrived. Some call him back a week or so later guilty over what they have done and he offers them the chance to face the labyrinth, he’s never used a bribe before and ultimately they deem it not worth the risk.” 

“The tale as I know it is that he takes the children to mine his kingdom and there they stay forever hewing rock.” Bilbo says thoughtfully after a while and another flight of stairs have been mastered. Dwalin makes a noise which he takes as confirmation and continues with his thought. “Dwalin was born and raised here, so how did you get out of the mines, Bofur?”

“Ha,” the dwarf laughed nervously and hid his dirty hands behind his back. “Guess he got sick of me singing all the time.” Bilbo takes his word for it and they continue up the stairs.

“What _do_ you know about the Dwarven King, if you don’t mind me asking?” Dwalin eventually spoke up, sounding troubled and inquisitive. Bilbo paused and stared at the dwarf, desiring him to elaborate. “It’s just,” Dwalin paused, struggling to find the words. “You don’t seem to know a lot.” 

Bilbo’s nose twitched at the insult. It was a very old story, one he could not recall with such great detail but still, he knew enough. “He’s the king of Erebor,” he started, stating the obvious and Dwalin rolled his eyes. “When the words are spoken, his minions take the naughty hobbit child away.”

“Yeah, his minions, not him.” Bilbo didn’t know what to say, Thorin had taken Frodo himself, the rotten so and so, he’d be having words with him. “Bilbo, think, what else do you know?” 

“Leave off, will ya? He doesn’t know.” Bofur piped up in his defense. 

“Don’t you think he should?” Dwalin fired back and Bofur’s shoulders slumped in defeat. 

“What should I know?” Bilbo asked quite testily since his intelligence has come into question. 

“The prophecy of the Dwarven King.”

“Oh yes, it is foretold that a hobbit would steal his heart or some such nonsense.” 

“It’s not nonsense, and the last name was given to the little thief.” Bilbo swallowed audibly. “Baggins.” Bilbo lurched forward suddenly lightheaded but Bofur caught him before he could fall. 

“I said leave off!” Bofur snapped bitterly. 

“That’s why no one questioned who I was, you _knew_ who I was. Wait, I am no thief and that King of yours, well he’s…” _devilishly handsome._ “He’s…” _physically flawless, engaging, arousing, trouble._ “He is…you know what he is.” He finds he does not much care for the shared smiles between his companions. “He cares as much for me as I care for him and that is not a great deal, he’s nothing but a pain in my backside.” His choice of words were poor as he heard a chorus of dirty sniggers. “Oh, stop it!” He snapped, becoming flustered.

“Thorin has been watching you your whole life.” Dwalin adds when he overcomes his laughter though his confession leaves Bilbo ill at ease. “Not just you, all the Baggins,” Dwalin tries to ease but only fans the flames. 

Bilbo can’t very well blame Thorin for watching over him. Had there been a prophecy about himself he would surely be curious but he did not live between worlds as the king did. His name was not spoken at night and he did not live as a phantom in the shadows. A shiver runs down his spine when he thinks of shadows. When he was very young he had an imaginary friend who liked to play in the shadows, his name had been Tobin and he used to tell him the most fantastic stories. His mother had said Tobin wasn’t real, but she used to set a place for him at the table to humour him, while his father laughed and said he’d had a similar friend when he grew up.

“Ignore me, think nothing of it.” Dwalin says, troubled but he cannot think of anything else. It had been the saddest day of his life when Tobin stopped visiting him. He’d searched and searched, getting into trouble for venturing so far alone and at night but Tobin lived in shadows so he could only be found in them. His mother had told him he had outgrown Tobin but he had not lost him, he existed in the plain between wakefulness and sleep. A white lie to ease his broken heart. He’d gone to bed eagerly each night, squeezing his eyes shut, desperate to speak to his friend once more but the plain between wakefulness and sleep was a delicate balance and he was one or the other, never between. He’d blamed himself for not mastering the art and as time went by he eventually forgot about Tobin, and locked the memory of him in a box along with dreams of fantastical adventures he would never have. Never did he think that box would come open but it had and Tobin had come back to him in the form of the Dwarven King. 

He did not know what was more troubling, that it was foretold that he would be the hapless burglar or that Tobin no longer considered him a friend. “I think I knew him once,” he speaks eventually as they continue to climb the stairs. 

“That you did.” Dwalin confirms his suspicions. 

“He spoke to me about adventures and gold.” Tobin always talked about gold, obsessively so. Bilbo used to look for specks of it in the stream regardless of his fear of water just so he could bring some back and make Tobin happy. “Why did he stop?” _being my friend,_ he does not add. 

“He claimed you were not his One.”

“I was a child!” Bilbo snapped, suddenly angry. “How dare he assume to know my heart, I lov-I liked him. Well I don’t like him anymore!” He snapped petulantly, sprouting falsehoods as though they were the truth. 

There’s tension between them that had not existed before his outburst and he is truly sorry for that. His hostility has soured the air and there is still such a long way to go. He wishes he had kept quiet. They trudge on in silence, mood low and hearts heavy.

Eventually Dwalin breaks the silence and regales them with tales of his exploits with Thorin, heaping accolades upon the king so Bilbo could not fail to be impressed. Each tale leaves him a little breathless and enamoured with the king, which, he assumes was Dwalin’s intent. He wishes to hear no more as his heart aches listening to adventures they could have had together but instead Thorin had found him lacking. 

Instead he tells tales of his own. He tells of stolen silver spoons and nasty gossiping hobbits and when he fears he has made the Shire sound like a dreadful place he speaks of the parties and his garden and the fireworks Old Took has on Midsummer’s Eve. 

Bofur does not share stories and by his earlier confession, Bilbo could understand why. Though Bofur does know a ditty or two and he sings cheeky songs that are nigh on bawdy. To his surprise Dwalin adds his voice to some and one song in particular captures Bilbo’s attention that he asks Bofur to sing it again. It takes three repeats but he is quite sure he has all the words memorised to The Man in the Moon Came Down Too Soon that he could sing it in The Green Dragon and amaze his fellow hobbits. 

The thought of home sours his jovial mood and reminds him of his plight. He feels terrible that he was actually enjoying himself while Frodo must be terrified believing help would not be coming. It made his heart ache for Bofur all the more knowing he was betrayed by the one person who should have loved him more than life itself. He looks over his shoulder and watches Bofur follow dejectedly behind with his hands stuffed into his pockets and his head down. He waits on the step for Bofur to catch up and throws a companionable arm around his shoulders. He chooses not to speak as he hasn’t the words and he hopes his presence is enough to convey all that he could not say. 

“Almost there!” Dwalin announces giddily though Bilbo would not dare to mention it. He found it comical as Dwalin practically ran ahead out of sight eager to escape and he nudged Bofur to poke fun good-naturedly at Dwalin. He found it strange that a dwarf would crave the open air but then he realised he wasn’t escaping dwarven halls but Smaug’s lair and his uncharacteristic enthusiasm made sense. 

“Reminds me of a tween given too much sugar,” Bilbo whispers trying to lighten the mood. Bofur remains troubled and the thought of sugar reminds him of cake and pastries and his stomach whines pitifully in response. “Sorry,” Bilbo apologises dropping his arm from Bofur’s shoulders and clutches his stomach as the dwarf looks at him. 

“Are you hungry?” 

“Starved.” Bilbo answers honestly and his stomach cries out in agreement. 

“Well I...er...I was saving it for myself but...here you go.” Bofur produces a fresh large peach from his pocket and Bilbo takes it eagerly.

“You are a life saver!” Bilbo announces and takes an exceptionally large bite to ease his demanding stomach. He swallows immediately without chewing showing a tremendous lack of manners and he regrets his actions as his head begins to swim and his tongue feels heavy in his mouth. “Bofur?” He questions eyeing the grief stricken dwarf and then the peach in his hand. He stumbles forward and Bofur catches him and helps him to sit down as his vision becomes fuzzy like his eyes were heavy with sleep. “What have you done?” His own voice sounds off as though he was hearing it from underwater and he fights to keep his eyes open. 

“Damn Thorin!” Bofur snaps though he sounds miles away and he cannot see him as his vision is fading. “And damn me too!” He can hear footsteps echo in the distance and knows that Bofur has ran away and he lays down against the steps, resting his head against the cold stone and he grips the daisy chain in his pocket before succumbing to the magic of the fruit. 

 

Colour bursts in the darkness. A silver explosion as though a star had erupted and fell from the heavens in glittering sparkles. Pillars of fire rise towards the shards of silver and the two converge and create a convocation of eagles that fly majestically through the twilight sky. A chorus of appreciative sounds accompany the fiery birds’ journey followed by rapturous applause as the eagles disperse in a cascade of glitter. 

Bilbo rubs his eyes disorientated and sits back down at a table that held the remains of a feast and many tankards of ale which he assumed were the reason for his confusion. The sky is still full of tiny fragments of silver glittering brightly above the hobbits that dance beneath the diamond encrusted skyline. 

Laughter erupts from both sides of him and Bilbo turns to see a group of Tooks to his left and a group of Brandybucks to his right and somehow he had fallen into the crevice between the two families. He snatches the tankard nearest to him and takes a gulp of the amber liquid realising he was at the annual Midsummer’s Eve party in the Shire. 

He takes another drink and watches the masked dancers waltz in perfect synchronization as laughter bubbles up around him. He smiles thinly to disguise his unease as he was reminded how he had become ostracized in social gatherings. His mood sours as it tended to do when he was put into situations where his social awkwardness became apparent and he could see how far removed he was from the society he so loved and would dare not leave. 

He looks around once more desperately hoping to find the Gaffer so they could while away the time by talking of their gardens and the Gaffer’s prize winning vegetables. Though it is in vain as all the hobbits are masked, a practise he had not seen before in the Shire with the women dressed in colourful flowing dresses while the men were in colourful waistcoats with a pin above the breast with the insignia of their house. 

Bilbo took another drink as his findings confused him though why he thought he would find clarity in the bottom of a tankard he did not know. He finishes the ale and places the tankard down and listens to the music. He can hear two fiddle players playing perfectly in sync with one another though where they stand he cannot see. The music itself is light with a quick tempo which the dancers seem to enjoy as they spin quickly in a swirl of colours that leave him dazzled. 

He stands from his seat and is promptly ignored by the two families by his sides as he tries to locate the fiddle players. Again he fails to see them though his eyes connect with two sapphire eyes that watch him with interest. He turns away suddenly self-conscious until curiosity makes him look again. The male is still watching him unashamedly as his blue eyes sparkle with mischief under thick dark eyebrows. Bilbo is simply spellbound and he could not turn away if he wished to and he found he most certainly did not want to. 

The male lifts his tankard in a silent toast before bringing it up to his smiling thin lips framed by a neatly shorn black beard that was interspersed with grey whiskers. Bilbo watches him tip his head back sending long black hair cascading down his shoulders and exposing the long pale column of his throat and he watches the apple of his throat bob as he swallows. It was terribly rude to stare and worse still to find the dwarf’s mundane actions erotic. Why a dwarf was even present he could not say though he would guess for diplomatic reasons regarding the Blue Mountains. 

The dwarf finishes his drink and sets it down on the table and runs his tongue along his lower lip that leaves Bilbo desperate for a taste. Bilbo shakes his head as if to dislodge such thoughts as the Baggins in him berates his behaviour but his Took blood makes him look again. The dwarf is smirking as though well aware of his inner conflict and he sends the hobbit a look that screams ‘come hither’ that leaves Bilbo torn in two. The Baggins in him tells him to stay put and play it safe while the Took in him screams at him to follow his heart and live. 

Deciding he had played safe his whole life Bilbo throws caution to the wind and heads off in pursuit of the dwarf. The dance is still going on and he finds his path blocked on multiple occasions that he has to push passed them apologising all the while. The dwarf remains at his table watching his progress from what he can see when the path is cleared and he continues on even when the dancers become a wall. He breaks through their ranks, relieved to be on the other side but then his heart plummets as the table is empty and a single tankard was the only evidence that someone had been seated there. 

Bilbo looks around even raising on his tiptoes but he can see no sign of the dwarf. He drops his head, defeated when suddenly his arm is caught and he is pulled into the dance and spun around by a partner taller than he in an orange dress and a pointed mask that covered her face. Happy laughter sounds all around him as he is swept up in the madness and lost in the world of colour, laughter and music until his partner releases him and takes up with someone else and continues to rotate around the dance floor. 

He stands in the middle of the dance floor and his world mutes as he simply stares at the dwarf as the dance carries on around them. There is no sound save for the beating of his heart as the tall dwarf approaches wearing a navy tunic with silver embroidery and a black fur surcoat. There is a large sword at his hip attached to the sturdy silver belt around his thin waist. He looks no further as he is caught within the dwarf’s gaze and his feet feel planted to the ground as the dwarf walks around him assessing him before coming to a halt before him. 

Nothing is said between them as they come together, with the dwarf holding his left hand in his right while his arm falls down to rest on his hip. Unsure where to place his right hand, Bilbo clutches the dwarf’s impressively large bicep and they begin to sway together following the rhythm of their own hearts. The dancers continue to spin in his peripheral vision but they are a world away from their own paradise found in the arms of one another. 

For how long they dance he would not dare to guess though it feels as if time itself had stood still. Something niggles at the back of his mind, a distant echo of a warning of some sort that leaves him feeling restless. He tries to chase the thoughts away with new thoughts on the dwarf pressed tightly against him and the large hand that was travelling lower with each rotation in their dance. It was terribly improper considering he did not even know the dwarf’s name and he could only guess he was the ambassador for the Blue Mountains though if there was any truth in it he could not say. 

He rests his head against the dwarf’s chest and tilts his chin up to look into the eyes that had him so enraptured. The dwarf looks back at him and in that moment his worries are forgotten as he feels safe and complete in the dwarf’s arms. He hadn’t realised there was such a gaping hole in his life and had only become aware of it once it was filled. He had thought he was broken not following the status quo and having children but now he knows he was not broken just simply waiting for his other half that was not of the same race. 

The dwarf inclines his head subtly and Bilbo rises on his tiptoes to taste the lips that had inspired his lust. His thoughts get away from him as he wonders if they would adopt children as Bag End was big enough for plenty of children and Frodo could have many playmates. 

“Frodo,” he whispers against the dwarf’s lips and his memory comes back to him like a rock to the head. The Dwarven King looks down at him with widened eyes and once smiling lips become a sneer. “Give Frodo back!” He orders smacking pitifully at the king’s chest and wrests himself from the king’s arms. 

“Bilbo!” The king growls in warning. 

“You can’t scare me. I’m not afraid of you.” Bilbo states neutrally, disregarding all that just happened between himself and the king. 

The king remains defiant and folds his arms stubbornly causing Bilbo to flee. The dancers stop and grab at his arms shouting his name as he rushes by them. He does not know where to go only that he must escape and he continues to barge his way through the masked dancers as they crowd him.

“Bilbo...Bilbo...Bilbo” they chant monotonously, grabbing at him and shaking him.

 

“Bilbo...Bilbo? Damnit wake up!” Pain explodes on the left side of his face and Bilbo opens his eyes startled to find Dwalin staring at him. “Bilbo!” Dwalin announces happily and helps him to his feet and he finds he is back in Smaug’s lair. “I came to find you when you didn’t come out and found you on the steps with Bofur long gone.” Dwalin lowers his head sadly. “I should have told you he was working for Thorin, I knew he was but I never thought he would hurt you.”

Bilbo waved his hand as if to ward off his apologies. “He didn’t hurt me, no harm done, though we are pressed for time. Come along,” he carries on up the stairs reluctant to think about what had just happened or the fact that Bofur had betrayed him a second time. 

“So what did happen?” Dwalin pressed.

“Nothing.” Bilbo answered abruptly and the speed and vehemence of his reply proved his words false. Dwalin was silent beside him overwhelmed with regret and though Bilbo did not like to see the dwarf struggle he was pleased his questioning had ceased. 

“I should have told you about the Arkenstone,” Dwalin blurts out when they finally make it out. “It is not a jewel it is...”

“What happened here?” Bilbo interrupts staring at the ruined man-made city. They pass through the destroyed gate and walk through the empty streets passing crumbled building and scorched husks of age-old vendors. 

“Smaug happened,” Dwalin reveals moments before they pass a corner and find blackened skeletal remains. He turns away and covers his mouth in horror only imagining how terrified the people of Dale must have been when the sky rained death upon them. 

Distantly he can hear the sound of drums and the earth quakes beneath their feet. He turns to Dwalin uncertain what it meant and found Dwalin looking slack-jawed towards the north. He turns to look as well spying a strange four-part black flag on the hill lifting and turning as though giving directions unknown to him. 

“Run!” Dwalin shouts and for once the mighty dwarf actually sounds afraid as if he knew what the signalling flag meant. Dwalin grabs a hold of his shirt and pulls him along as he slows them being the shorter of the two and though he does not like the rough handling he appreciates that Dwalin is not simply out for himself. 

The city seemed to be a maze with its many side streets not that it should be surprising considering where they actually were. How they manage to get into the Town’s Square which was the heart of the desolate city he does not know. 

“I think the worst is behind us,” he says optimistically as they come to rest against the broken and moss covered fountain. The Square that boasts the palace is the root of the city and all the streets branch out from there making his route towards Erebor simple. He is also pleased to find that the drumming has stopped and the earth no longer trembles as though thousands of feet trampled upon it. 

Dwalin says nothing in reply and he considers his route towards Erebor and looks towards the eastern streets noticing with some disappointment that both ways were blocked. He considers the north east streets and finds they too are blocked and dread settles in the bottom of his stomach like a dead weight as he looks at the remaining streets in suspicion. His worry was not unfounded as he found all the streets were blocked except the one they had used to arrive here which meant luck was not on their side rather they were herded to a predestined location. 

He looks towards the hill again and to his horror the flag that had become stationary was active once more. Before he can give it anymore thought a plank of wood comes sailing through the air and he ducks and scarpers with Dwalin as the plank strikes the decayed fountain and crumbles the last of it. He turns his attention to the street he and Dwalin had entered from and gulps at what he sees.

“What is that?” He squeaks in terror and would be ashamed that his voice failed him had fear not consumed him. 

“An orc.”

“Doesn’t look like an orc to me!” Bilbo protests staring at the pale scarred creature standing at least eight foot tall with a serrated blade for a left arm. “This wasn’t in the story!” He shrieks as lidless bright aqua eyes stare at him and a lipless mouth opens revealing sharp filed teeth.

Stepping out from behind the broken cart where he had taken refuge he takes a step forward with his arms held up in surrender. “My name is Bilbo Baggins...” he starts and cannot finish as the creature roars in rage and charges him. He steps back and the orc swings a thick steel chain with a large rock attached at his head and he ducks and retreats losing his footing. 

“What are you doing?” Dwalin demands, catching him before he could fall. “There’s no talking to him!” They both duck as the orc swings at them again. “That’s Azog the Defiler,” they duck again. “You’ve really pissed Thorin off.” 

“Is this about the Arkenstone again?” He asks as they duck and run. It is madness carrying out a perfectly decent conversation while a homicidal orc was attempting to kill them but he could not help himself. “I might not have come here had I known your king had such an eclectic menagerie that he liked to set on his visitors!” Azog continues to roar in rage becoming reckless with each miss and bringing the boulder down harder with each attempt. 

It is through his own foolishness that the orc pauses having slammed the boulder so hard the ground had given in and succumbed to the weight breaking beneath it and holding it fast. Taking the opportunity to flee, they find their plans ruined as Azog had destroyed their only escape route before he had revealed himself. 

“Okay maybe we can barter with him, what is Thorin paying him?” 

“Nothing,” Dwalin states, dashing his hopes. “He defeated him in battle. That arm? Courtesy of Thorin.” He stares at the back of the creature eyeing the solid muscles and is impressed Thorin held his own against him and surprised to learn Thorin did not go for the kill a second time. 

“So there’s no talking to him and we can’t barter with him and I can’t be expected to defeat him in battle.” 

“We could...” Dwalin says nothing further as the boulder crashes into his side sending him sailing through the air. 

“Dwalin!” He rushes towards the dwarf worried to find him clutching his ribs and gasping for breath. He glares at the orc with contempt and removes his sword as Azog begins to approach languidly as though to mock him. Jumping to his feet, Bilbo waves Sting in what he hopes is a threatening way but considering the orc laughs he believes he failed. 

“Stay away from him, stay away! I don’t want any trouble, just leave and you can consider yourself forgiven. Don’t and well, you might lose the other arm.” It’s a weak threat and there is clearly bloodlust on the face of the Defiler. “Thorin sent you to kill me not him, so come on then!” Bilbo challenges selflessly and takes off running hoping and praying he was correct and Azog’s orders were to eliminate him and not Dwalin. 

Both fortunately and unfortunately he was correct and Azog comes after him with vengeance though what he could have done to stir the ire of the foul thing he did not know. The boulder swings at his head and crashes by his sides as he is herded towards a scorched building that looks as if it was once a school house. He presses his back to the rough brick and stares at the Defiler defiantly. The boulder strikes the wall to the left causing a great crack in the brick that fractures into thin veins shooting through the brick and damaging the integrity of the structure. The boulder swings again and he moves allowing it to hit lower to the right and dust from the clay rains down on his shoulders. He moves again avoiding another blow when suddenly he is struck on the back of the head by falling debris and he crumples to the ground. He stares at the bald scarred creature with the bat-like ears and watches a thin trail of saliva run down his chin as he tightens the steel chain and then he closes his eyes. 

“I’m coming Bilbo!” Someone yells at the top of their lungs and Bilbo opens his eyes and sees Bofur launch himself at Azog. He gets to his feet woozily as Bofur makes stabbing actions at Azog’s neck but he cannot see his weapon as he staggers about. The orc yells in anger and pain as Bofur clutches his shoulders and he spins trying to dislodge the dwarf. Bilbo picks up Sting and whilst Azog is distracted he slices him across the back of the knee and wretches as black blood spills from a gaping hole revealing muscle and tendons. 

Azog collapses like a felled mighty oak and Bofur tumbles to the ground but is quick to jump up unharmed. “Finish him, Bilbo.” Bofur encourages and Bilbo steps forward and presses the tip of his sword over the orc’s heart meaning to plunge it in and end him. Azog merely stares at him unable to blink and his ruined face is devoid of any emotion as he waits for the killing blow. 

He attempts to press forward but his arm shakes and instead he lowers his weapon. “No, I won’t do this,” he states with a shake of his head and takes a step back. “Do you hear me, Thorin?” He shouts and turns to look at the hill and the stationary flag. “I won’t compromise my beliefs for your pleasure!” He puts Sting away and checks on Dwalin and finds the dwarf staggering to his feet clutching his ribs. “Are you okay?” He asks nestling under Dwalin’s left arm and attempts to hold him up.

“What’s he doing here?” Dwalin grows with distaste as Bofur approaches looking contrite.

“I guess I deserve that,” Bofur says without eye contact and pulls his quirky hat from his head. “I’m sorry Bilbo, I should have told you. I was in the mines in Erebor. I was cursed to dig forever and that was my lot in life and I accepted it until the king summoned me. I was selfish, I didn’t think about anyone but myself when the king offered me my freedom. All I had to do was stop you and I didn’t know you and I didn’t even spare a thought for Frodo, I just wanted to see the light of day again and feel a fresh breeze on my skin. I realise it was a poor choice I made, my childhood was taken from me and in turn I tried to take Frodo’s. I see the error of my ways now and Thorin can do whatever he wants to me because nothing can hurt me as much as seeing the betrayal in your eyes when you bit that peach. I want to help; honestly I do but if you find you cannot trust me I’ll understand.” 

All is quiet even Azog stays silent whilst on his knees still bleeding out with his head lowered in defeat. “Get his other arm, would you?” Bofur’s smile is more dazzling than the sun and he places his hat on top of his head and moves to Dwalin’s right side. 

The drums sound in the distance, though closer than before and the ground shakes as though an army marches upon them. “Out of the frying pan,” Dwalin states with a grimace. 

“And into the fire,” Bilbo finishes. “Run!” It is hardly a run though they do move hastily towards a damaged building and exit through a window getting around the blockade and hurry along the devastated streets. How they stay ahead of the danger he does not know but they soon find themselves leaving the city formerly known as Dale and follow an overgrown path towards Erebor. 

The mountain looks as unwelcoming as the Dwarven King with two statues of the king carved from the very mountain standing guard beside the large doors looking down their nose at any visitor. He catches Dwalin’s whisper of ‘home’ but Bofur does not share his sentiment for obvious reasons. When they reach the doors, he expects them to be blocked or them to be apprehended but nothing of the sort happens and he pushes the doors with all his might and watches them come open. 

Bofur whistles impressed when they enter the Great Hall and stand on a floor of solid gold and face an empty throne. He does not imagine that it was the Dwarven King’s true throne rather a substitute for when emissaries from other colonies arrived if they did. His musing ceases when he notices the clock above the throne showing he has thirteen minutes left. He releases Dwalin’s arm and looks around when a cry from Frodo sounds from the western stairwell. 

“Frodo!” He calls and rushes towards the western stairwell with Bofur and Dwalin staggering behind him. He stops on the third step and eyes his companions who he now considers friends. Here they must part, if the tale is to be told correctly. “I must face him alone that is the way it is done,” he announces. 

“If that is the way it is done, that is the way you must do it. But, should you need us,” Dwalin offers.

“Yes, should you need us,” Bofur agrees with a tight smile.

“I’ll call, thank you, both of you.” He runs up the stairs mindful of the time.

“Bilbo?” Dwalin calls before he is out of sight, he stops to listen. “You have no power over me.” Dwalin states sadly, dropping his head in shame. 

“Pardon?”

“Say ‘em, Bilbo, say the words and end this.” Bofur offers and Bilbo nods before continuing up the stairs. 

The stairs turn twice before opening up onto a walkway and Bilbo steps out staring at the multitude of levels and staggered walkways. He looks around unsure where to search when suddenly the Dwarven King appears in front of him wearing golden armour with a black velvet surcoat with a fur trim that is long in length that it drags on the floor behind him. Upon his head he wears a golden crown with black onyx depicting a raven as it was said in folklore that dwarven folk knew the language of the ravens and it was kept a secret much like their own language. 

“Where is he?” Thorin points upward and Bilbo tilts his head up and sure enough five levels above him Frodo is sat. “Frodo!” He cries and runs along the walkway ignoring the king as he makes his way up the stairwell and sprints up five levels. He rushes out onto the walkway only to find he had not travelled higher but lower as Frodo is now seven levels higher. Confused, Bilbo runs up the stairs again climbing three levels and walks onto the walkway to find Frodo nine levels beneath him. Realising the stairs are spellbound Bilbo tries a few more times trying to find an algorithm though if there is one he cannot work it out. 

Running down fifteen flights of stairs Bilbo heads out onto the walkway and sees that he is only one flight away from Frodo. “Frodo, you stay there, that’s a good lad.” He calls down to him.

“Bilbo?” Frodo asks excitedly and holds his arms out. Bilbo steps forward and his toes grip the edge of the walkway as he looks down. It isn’t too long a drop though the sudden weight might twist his ankle and ruin his knees and if he stumbles the drop would be longer into the unfathomable abyss where he imagines he would come to the most gruesome end. If the stairs were what they were he could travel down a level and put an end to this mad adventure but they were bewitched and he hadn’t cracked the code if there even was one and time was against him. 

“Look away, Frodo!” He calls and squeezes his eyes shut as he takes a leap of faith and steps off the walkway. 

He fears he has overshot it as he continues to fall and he opens his eyes as he falls passing by walkways until he lands softly before the true throne. The throne is carved from a huge stalactite that hung from the top of the mountain and gleamed with a vein of untapped gold. High upon the backrest there is a golden geometric design and at the centre is the Arkenstone still as beautiful and as mesmerising as it was in Bag End. The throne is not vacant as the king sits on it with his face turned away and head lowered in what could be assumed to be remorse but he was not that optimistic. 

“Give me the child.” He orders and Thorin lifts his head and glares at him.

“Bilbo beware, I have been generous up until now but I can be cruel.” It is impolite to snort derisively but Bilbo does so regardless.

“Generous?” He asks with contempt. “What have you done that has been generous?” 

“Everything!” Thorin rages and stands. “Everything you have wanted I have done.” Bilbo opens his mouth to refute the claims but Thorin continues. “You asked for the child to be taken, I took him.” He announces and stands before the hobbit. “You cowered before me, I was frightening. I have reordered time. I have turned the world upside down and I have done it all for you!” The king steps back and shakes his head. “I’m exhausted from living up to your expectations, isn’t that generous?” 

Bilbo can only stare dumbly unable to respond though what the king says reminds him of the story and the words that must be spoken. “Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered I have fought my way here to the palace beyond the Goblin City. My will is as strong as yours and my...”

“Stop! Wait. Look, Bilbo, look what I’m offering you.” The Arkenstone appears in the king’s hand once more. “Your dreams.” Bilbo looks at the gem and amongst the swirling colours he sees the vibrantly clad dancers and himself in the Dwarven King’s arms.

“And my kingdom is great,” he continues though it pains him to do so.

“I ask for so little just let me rule you and you can have everything that you want.” Thorin offers desperately and Bilbo’s heart aches in fear that he would succumb to the king and also in fear that he would not. “Just fear me, love me, do as I say and I will be your slave.” Thorin states with a heart-wrenching smile and holds the Arkenstone out for him to take. 

Ignoring the tears in his own eyes, Bilbo looks at the stone and then back up at the king. “I am so sorry, Tobin.” He states with regret and Thorin’s smile falls at the use of that particular name and it feels as if he has lost him all over again. “You have no power over me.” A broken crystal stare is his only reply before the king vanishes and a clock chimes echoing so loud he must cover his ears. 

Moments later his surroundings begin to spin making him feel nauseous and dizzy. He shuts his eyes and when he opens them again he is in his parlour in Bag End and his green round door is open. A raven squawks and flies past him brushing his ear with an outstretched wing before flying out through the open door. The weather has calmed but Bilbo shuts the door and twists the key before falling against the newly painted door and allows himself to breathe. 

“Frodo!” He cries, startled and rushes towards one of the guest bedrooms. He takes a deep breath before cautiously opening the door afraid of what he might find. The room is dark but the shadows are chased away as the light spills in from the hallway and frame the child sleeping in bed with a soft orange glow. Bilbo breathes a sigh of relief and shuts the door with a faint click and leaves Frodo to rest. 

He looks around at all the winding quiet tunnels of his home and though he is pleased to be home his grief outweighs his cheer. Bag End seemed too empty, the tunnels too quiet and there was a stillness about the place that once used to settle his nerves but now reminded him of stagnation and rot. For thirteen hours he had been away and in that time he had found himself changed having lived in that moment more than he had in his fifty years of simply existing. It had been non-stop in the labyrinth and it was both terrifying and thrilling and he had felt alive.

Still he would have some stories to tell, not that he would be believed. Already he was known as Mad Baggins so to speak of the labyrinth would be only fuelling those already established thoughts. He had to warn them though, they had to know that the harmless story they were telling the children was not as harmless as they previously thought. He did not wish for the king to be summoned under false pretenses again and have a child torn away from their family and forced to live a life of servitude never to see the sun again. 

He thought of Bofur and his heart ached as he remembered the cheerful dwarf who clung onto happiness wherever he could find it. He was a good sort, with a heart of gold and he would forever remember him fondly and Dwalin as well. Though he was not as free with his emotions he was capable of them and underneath that hard exterior was a fierce loyalty and a good heart. 

He was unsure how he would remember Thorin, as he knew it would hurt to even speak his name. Best he only refer to him as the Dwarven King and keep personal ties to himself, even when tears fill his eyes at the Midsummer Eve’s party he will not speak of what happened. Thirteen hours with the dwarf should not have changed him especially since the king had spent most of that time terrorising him. One dance should have changed nothing, but it had changed him as he had lost his heart to the king, or simply finally acknowledged who was in possession of it. His friend in the shadows, who spoke of adventure. He had seen the true dwarf beneath the thin veneer of almighty king and had found him as lonely as himself. He kidnapped children to fill his halls and put an end to the deafening silence. He did not agree with Thorin’s methods, of course but he could understand his reasoning. In fact, he was almost guilty of the same, offering to take care of children so his home wasn’t so empty. 

Leaving the hallway Bilbo ventures into the kitchen and fills the kettle and leaves it to boil on the stove. He looks down at his clothing saddened to find his waistcoat buttonless and in tatters and his once white shirt is dirtied and his poor trousers had seen better days. It was hardly an outfit for an adventurer but he never claimed he was anything other than what he was. He is thankful that his head no longer throbs from pain and his ankles are no longer punctured from thistles in the woods. That and the fact his sword, Sting is still with him is enough to celebrate or sit down with a nice cup of tea and smoke a pipe of Old Toby. 

There is a trunk in the hall off to the right between his study and kitchen where he keeps his books and knick-knacks. In there he chooses to place Sting and he shuts and locks the trunk as the kettle whistles. He returns to the kitchen and moves the silver kettle over, switching off the stove when he catches his reflection on the kettle. He looks again and sure enough he sees Bofur and Dwalin stood behind him. He turns only to find overstuffed shelves with cooking appliances and when he turns back Dwalin and Bofur are still stood behind his reflection smiling sadly. 

Bilbo returns the smile quite sure his mind was playing tricks on him. He remembers their last words to him, hardly a decent parting for how much they meant to him but he could not speak honestly then. “I need you, Bofur. I don’t know why but every now and again in my life for no reason at all I need you, both of you.” 

“Oh you do? Why didn’t you say so?” Bofur asks and suddenly hands grab him from behind and he turns to see Bofur smiling widely before him in the flesh and he pulls him into a hug. Dwalin smiles at him but folds his arms warding off a hug he knew would come after Bilbo releases Bofur. He tries anyway and is stopped when his doorbell rings.

“That’ll be the door,” Dwalin says pointedly forcing him to give up his pursuit of a hug and go over to the door. There is quite a ruckus behind his door and fearing they would chip the paint he pulls the door open and a sea of dwarves spill into his parlour. Bofur and Dwalin come and help the fallen dwarves to their feet and each one gives their name as they stand. Oin had an ear trumpet and had an uncanny resemblance to the golden doorknocker he had seen. Fili and Kili, Thorin’s nephews he had come to learn who both look like cheeky chaps head towards his barrels of ale without so much as a by your leave. Ori, Nori, Dori, Gloin and then another dwarf with a resemblance to the doorknocker with an axe in his head who doesn’t look pleased to see him. 

“This is my cousin, Bifur!” Bofur announces proudly clapping the dwarf on the back.

“Menu shirumund,” Bifur barks and Bofur looks stunned.

“Oi don’t you say that.” Bofur protests leaving Bilbo confused as he can only gather he has been insulted.

“Men gajamu,” Bifur says sincerely lowering his head and Bilbo nods assuming the dwarf apologised. 

“Menu jemetu,” Bofur says and Bifur takes his leave before Bofur hooks his arm around a very large ginger dwarf’s neck, who is carrying five wheels of cheese. “This is my brother, Bombur.” Bombur says nothing as he stares at the cheese with hunger in his beady little eyes and any resemblance to Bofur is lost on him.

“Do you need a cheese knife?” He offers though he fears he was not heard. 

“Cheese knife? He eats it by the block.” Bofur says cheekily and snatches a ham from the timid dwarf in knitwear and heads towards the dining room with his brother. 

Bag End is a hive of activity as dwarves rearrange his furniture and loot his pantry all the while talking loudly so they could be heard over each other. Before the labyrinth, he would have been flustered but now he welcomes the noise though he imagines his neighbours will have something to say come the morning and the fact Frodo has not stirred is a testament to his fatigue. 

“Bilbo, this is my brother.” Dwalin announces with an arm slung around the shoulders of a short white-haired dwarf. 

“Balin, at your service,” the dwarf states with a bow and a flick of his red cloak. “I’ve heard plenty about you, nice to put a face to the legend.” Balin says with dark eyes twinkling in mischief beneath white fluffy eyebrows. “And thank you for saving my brother, this big lug gets into all kinds of bother.” Dwalin sighs put upon and Bilbo laughs.

“He saved me too; he took a right good wallop from Azog.” 

“Aye I bet he did, always having to play the hero, he thinks his hide is made of mithril.” Balin teases good-naturedly. 

“Some wine, brother so you might shut up?” Dwalin asks and Bilbo watches them amused. He had always wanted a sibling but it was not meant to be though he had enough cousins to make up for the hole in his life. 

“Thorin…” Balin begins, voice wavering. “Thorin is a good lad really.” 

“I know that, Balin. He was…to me he was…” _everything._ Balin offers him a tight smile and pats him on the back with a look in his eyes that suggested he knew exactly how he felt about Thorin.

The brothers move on into the dining room and he follows them in and listens as Bofur regales them with their tale of Smaug that is over exaggerated and completely ridiculous in places. The gathered lap it up and sing songs that poke fun at the dragon whilst engaging in a food war that leaves Bombur looking forlorn over the waste. 

He moves on into the kitchen promising to make tea and listens as Bofur begins to sing The Man In The Moon Came Down Too Soon and he sings along under his breath. He makes a pot of tea and places it on a tray with many mugs and enters the dining room once more. Only three of the teas are taken as most of the dwarves are happy with their ale and it seems are quite content to drink the barrels dry. 

He smiles as he watches them converse as it was quite a merry gathering but something did not feel right. He excuses himself to sit alone in his livingroom and there he brings the golden coin from his pocket and looks at the picture of the severe looking king. He runs the pad of his thumb over the king’s sharp cheekbone annoyed by the artists’ interpretation. Thorin was not sharp angles but soft and the gold did no justice to his eyes and the expression made the king seem as cold as the gold in his hand. 

He’s snapped out of his reverie as he hears Bofur again; shrieking ‘don’t eat me’ in what he concludes is a dramatic imitation of him. He turns and shakes his fist at him and the others laugh loudly at his response as Bofur continues with his stories. He gets up from his armchair and walks over to the mantelpiece and sets the gold coin down, upright between the portraits of his mother and father. It was a poor prize to take back from the labyrinth but all he had left of the king was the coin and his memories. There the Dwarven King would always remain, safe and unchanged by time and eternally cherished whilst the coin was in danger of being stolen especially if Lobelia catches sight of it. 

He turns to see if the coin would be visible through the window and there in the darkness he sees a lone raven sat on his wall. Crows were indigenous to the Shire but ravens were not and before he had fully realised what he was doing he fled Bag End and shut the door standing before it unsure how to approach the bird. 

“I know who you are!” He calls to the bird as the raven tilts its head. “Stop this silliness and come inside. My pantry has been pilfered though I am sure I could make you some soup.” To his surprise the bird vanishes rather than flies away.

“Are you not going to throw a rock at me, Master Baggins?” Thorin’s voice calls out in the darkness.

“I think I might if you continue to skulk around my rosebush.” He hears his gate open and watches as a figure materialises from the shadows as he walks up the path and stands in the weak glow of light coming from his windows. Gone are the lavish robes and golden armour and he has even forgone his crown. Instead he wears a black leather surcoat and beneath that a surcoat made entirely of chainmail. Why the king had come in body armour was curious and most telling as he had clearly believed he would be in for a fight of some sort. Beneath the armour is a black long sleeved velvet tunic and leather trousers and thick furred boots. He does not look like the king he resembled before, he seemed more accessible and less severe, a world away from the ruthless king he liked to portray. 

His actions match his wardrobe, uncharacteristic and contrite as he turns his face from the light. “I would take back my words and deeds in the labyrinth.” He announces without eye contact. “I said that you were a burden and would not survive the labyrinth and you had no place amongst us.” His eyes briefly stray to the kitchen window where his guests are loudly enjoying Bilbo’s hospitality before they finally come to settle on him. “I have never been so wrong in all my life,” Thorin moves as if to approach but as he is unsure of his welcome he remains still. “I am so sorry that I led you into such peril,” his voice breaks heavy with regret and he turns away in shame. 

“Hey no no no,” Bilbo says and makes to move forward but it seems he has succumbed to the same malady as the Dwarven King as his feet will not move. “In a way I was happy to face such peril. You gave me an adventure of a lifetime and it is more than any Baggins deserves.” The Dwarven King’s shoulders lower as though he was tense expecting his apology to be rejected but he still will not look at him. “Thorin, please look at me.” Reluctantly the king does so with such sorrow etched on his face it breaks his heart. “I’m sorry too,” he confesses in a whisper. “I didn’t understand the significance of the Arkenstone; I did not know what you were offering me and what I mindlessly rejected.” Dwalin had tried to tell him about the Arkenstone but he did not listen and only became aware of its importance when Thorin held it out to him desperate for him to take it. 

“But please understand I would do anything to save Frodo,” he continues. “As I imagine you would to save those rascals you call nephews. But that nonsense is behind us now and though I am well off I own no pretty gems so all that I can offer you is my heart.”

“That is acceptable,” Thorin replies with the most beatific smile. 

“Well then, come over here. You have been too long in the shadows, Thorin, it is time you came into the light.” The king accepts his offer and approaches and when in reach pulls him into his arms. Thorin behaves himself and wraps his arms around his upper back, smothering him against his chest that Bilbo finds himself on tiptoes just so he can breathe. Thorin curls into him, resting his head against his own and holding him tightly as if afraid to let him go. 

A loud smash and suspicious silence interrupt their moment and they part a mere hair’s breadth and look towards the door. “You best come in and scare the daylights out of them before they destroy my home.” He takes the king’s hand in his and opens the door. “Our home,” he corrects and sends a smile Thorin’s way.

“Our home,” Thorin agrees and they enter Bag End together hand in hand.


End file.
